


Persistence: Part 2

by JaneOfCakes



Series: Persistence [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst because it's them, Fluff because they're cute idiots, Hurt John, I'm sure I'll add more as it goes, Jim has a thing for John, Jim is so so evil, Just an extra note about sex, M/M, Mycroft is still a meddling sod, Okay maybe a lot of porn, Porn, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock is awkward but takes good care of John, Smut because why not, You know what I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-04 19:02:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15153596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: John has died. The service is over. Sherlock tries to find his way through the grief.But he soon realizes that his flatmate is still alive and Mycroft is the only one who knows where he is.Sherlock is the world's only consulting detective, after all.Can he get Mycroft to take him to John and what will Jim do if he finds out the little doctor is still kicking?





	1. Chapter 1

It has been ten days since John was cremated. Sherlock is empty. A shell. Everyone around him watches as he slowly fades away. He is unable to sleep and sometimes doesn’t even try, but dutifully eats when Mrs. Hudson brings him food because he doesn’t have the energy to care or argue. Greg and Molly have taken turns visiting him, and Mycroft has come every day, mostly to ensure he hasn’t started using. Sherlock doesn’t even care. He hasn’t given a second thought to drugs, or anything else but John. 

His heart, that was once so full, is crushed into something smaller and infinitely more sad than it was before he met John. How can he go on? What can he do? He had found such happiness, something he had known, had thought he would never have. Could he throw himself back into the Work and ignore how much it reminds him of John or it that, too, cursed like so many other things in his life? His very own flat that always gave him solace, now does nothing but remind him of John.

Sherlock shuffles upstairs and into John’s bedroom. Everything is still exactly the way he left it and probably always would be. For a moment, he can see John in the bed smiling and patting the mattress next to his body. The vision is gone as quickly as it came. Sighing, he falls onto the bed and inhales deeply. The smell of John surrounds him. God, he never wants this bed to lose that absolutely delicious smell. He rolls onto his back.

“I thought I’d feel differently,” he whispers to the ceiling. “Like you are still near me, watching me, but I don’t. Why aren’t you here, John? Where are you?”

Sherlock closes his eyes, steeples his fingers before his lips, and lets all of the events and conversations and feelings of his life with John wash over him. He retreats into his mind palace, wishing he never had to leave it because John is still there. Voices echo through the rooms to find his ears. Faces and cases come and go. Finally, he reaches the last few months and begins to notice a pattern. 

Ten days after John’s funeral, ten days of thinking and breathing only John, Sherlock listens to the voices and the puzzle pieces begin falling into place.

***

_ Sherlock: You’ve been seeing a lot of my brother of late. _

_ John: Is that a problem? _

_ *** _

_ Mycroft: You have something to attend to down the hall. _

_ *** _

_ John: You need to take care of yourself no matter how intense things get with Moriarty. _

_ *** _

_ Mycroft: Don’t expect to control things you cannot. _

_ *** _

Their voices overlapping - 

_ John: Sherlock, don’t blame yourself. _

_ Mycroft: Sherlock, you mustn’t blame yourself. _

_ *** _

_ John: It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’ll be okay. We’ll protect each other. We’re in this together. _

_ *** _

_ Mycroft: Please remember that John loves you. Don’t do anything he wouldn’t approve of. _

_ *** _

_ John: No drugs. Please. I love you. _

_ *** _

_ Mycroft: Remember that John loves you. _

_ *** _

_ John: I...seh-oogen. _

_ *** _

_ Mycroft: John loves you. _

_ *** _

_ I...seh-oogen. _

_ *** _

_ John loves you. _

_ *** _

Sherlock’s eyes snap open and he gasps. 

“I’ll see you again.”

Before he can even move, he hears the front door of the flat open and click shut again. Mycroft’s voice calls out his name. Sherlock narrows his eyes and pushes himself up and off the bed. Walking down the short flight of stairs and into the dining area to greet his brother, he fixes him with a cold stare. Mycroft takes no real notice, as that expression is not at all an uncommon sight.

“Ah, there you are.” He pulls a plastic cup with a lid from a bag he brought with him and holds it out in Sherlock’s direction. “You need to fill this.”

“A drug test?”

Mycroft just looks at him and Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes.

“You have been here every day. Have I ever seemed high?”

“No, but I can hardly trust you. This is much more concrete.”

“John trusted me.”

“But I cannot,” he frowns mightily at his little brother. Sherlock scowls. “Just do it, Sherlock.”

He snarls as he snaps up the cup and walks to the loo, slamming the door behind. He emerges a few minutes later and gives the cup to Mycroft, who smiles smugly and puts it back in the bag.

“Thank you, dear brother.”

“John’s alive,” Sherlock blurts angrily. Mycroft freezes in place. His eyes are locked on Sherlock’s, wide and serious. That’s it. That’s all Sherlock needs to see. “You have never once said the words ‘he’s dead’.”

Mycroft quickly recovers with a condescending smile and brushes off Sherlock’s statement like so much dust.

“That hardly means he’s still alive.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘John loves you’ at his funeral,” Sherlock insists. Mycroft starts to answer, but Sherlock talks over him. “You  **never** make mistakes. Both of you have been telling me to take care of myself, not to blame myself for weeks now, like you wanted to prepare me for something - for John’s death.” He steps closer to get in Mycroft’s face. “I just didn’t see it. I wasn’t paying attention. I was so worried about John and Moriarty, I didnt see what was right in front of my face!”

“Sherlock…”

“Your daily visits,” he continues. “You’re doing it for John. He asked you to. He’s worried. Where is he?”

“Sherlock…”

“ **Where is he?!”** Sherlock demands through clenched teeth, getting right up in his business. Mycroft knows where John is. He forced him to go into hiding, to fake his own death. By god, he is going to tell Sherlock where John is now!

“I can’t tell you!” Mycroft snaps. Sherlock takes a step back, his jaw dropped in shock. He’d wanted it to be true. God, he wanted it to be true, but it felt like he was just clinging to the hope that he could escape this unacceptable reality. And now, with Mycroft’s confirmation…

Before Sherlock can utter a word, Mycroft grabs his arms and pulls him close.

“He’s safe,” he says in a low voice, “but he won’t be if Moriarty even begins to suspect he is alive. And neither will you.”

“You bastard,” Sherlock snarls and pulls out of his brother’s grasp. “You convinced him to fake his own death. Why?! Why the hell would you do that? Were you hoping I would decide the risks are too great and leave him? Or were you trying to teach me a lesson? All hearts are broken!”

“ENOUGH!” Mycroft yells louder than Sherlock ever remembers. Even when they were young, his brother seldom raised his voice. “ **He** convinced  **me** , Sherlock!”

The detective stares at him in stunned silence. His head begins to shake of its own volition. John wouldn’t. He would never, never hide.  _ But if he thought it would protect you, _ the overly large rational part of his brain supplies.  _ If he thought Moriarty would leave you alone _ ... Sherlock blinks his eyes wide.  _ God, John, is that what you thought? _

“He came to me after the catapult. He believed burning your heart meant removing him from your life. Once I came to agree with his view, orchestrating his death was child’s play. He was certain it would be a gunshot to the chest. Something about ‘Stopping John Watson’s heart’,” Mycroft’s mouth turns downward. “He appears to know Moriarty’s mind better than any would have expected. Protection from the bullet was not difficult to arrange. However, we did not expect the fall.”

“Compound fracture,” the detective states, suddenly very calm. “Were they able to reset it easily?”

“Yes, but Dr. Watson will be immobile and then have limited mobility for quite some time. He is not happy about the situation.”

“No doubt,” Sherlock mutters dismissively. He wears a pensive expression with irritation around the edges. Mycroft gives him a hard look.

“I wasn’t referring to that,” Mycroft corrects as Sherlock meets his eyes. “He would have preferred to tell you his suspicions from the beginning, and of the plan so as to spare you the pain of watching him die and attending his funeral.”

“No, it was more convincing this way,” he shakes his head and begins pacing back and forth before his elder. “Moriarty witnessed my going through the motions and resumed other plans. With me safe, the two of you were free to hunt him down without risk.”

“Indeed, but now that you know… The sooner we apprehend Moriarty, the sooner your beloved will be back at your side.”

“Best get to work then,” Sherlock gives him a clever smile and winks.

***

Two weeks alter, Sherlock walks into 221B late at night and strips off his coat. He hangs it and goes straight for the kitchen, filling the kettle for tea. He and Greg have spent every day and night chasing down leads. Both are exhausted, but Greg has the benefit of being able to sleep. Sherlock has remained restless, even knowing John is not dead. It’s almost worse now that he knows John is out there somewhere, but cannot know where. 

He sighs, putting the full kettle on the hob and simply stands in front of the stove to wait. He absently runs a hand through his wild curls, longing for the comfort of John’s warm embrace.

“Hello there, Sherlock,” comes a voice from behind his back. “You’ve been looking so hard. I thought I’d pay you a visit.”

Sherlock spins and faces the keeper of that voice with a snarl. Moriarty is standing within arm’s reach, so without even thinking, Sherlock punches him straight in the mouth. It is the first time he has seen this man since he murdered John and Sherlock wants to return the favor. He can barely keep himself from launching his body at him and tearing him limb from limb.

“My, my,” Moriarty wipes blood from his lips and tuts at Sherlock. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed. Or just the cold side.” He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, and cleans his mouth and hands with a look of mock sympathy on his face. “You still miss John, don’t you?”

Sherlock can control himself no longer. James Moriarty must never say John’s name again. NEVER. He leaps at him, knocking them both to the floor, and punches Moriarty again. The man’s head slams on the floor with a crack. Sherlock’s long fingers go for Moriarty’s neck, wrapping around it tightly and squeezing. Moriarty pulls a knife and slashes at Sherlock’s hands, just catching his wrist. He follows with a swipe at his face, but Sherlock ducks and rolls off of him. Moriarty sits up quickly and swings at him again. Sherlock rolls out of range.

Both men scramble to their feet quickly. Sherlock lunges at his enemy and gets a hand around his wrist. They slam into the kitchen counters as they grapple for the knife. After a few minutes of struggling, Sherlock decides to borrow a page from John’s book. Rearing his head back, he thrusts forward and smashes his forehead against Moriarty’s. They both see stars and stagger back, releasing grip on one another.

“God, how does he…” the detective blinks and lays his hands on either side of his own head.

Before finishing the thought, Sherlock sees Moriarty lunging out of the corner of his eye. He twists out of the way, the knife skimming his suit jacket as his fingers close around Moriarty’s wrist again. As the villain glides passed him, Sherlock wrenches his arm behind his back and pins it between their bodies. He uses his own momentum to slam Moriarty against the wall and the shorter man cries out in pain.

They are both still for a moment before Moriarty braces his other hand on the wall and pushes away with all his strength. Sherlock is thrown off balance by the sudden thrust. After a few unsteady steps backwards, he falls onto his back with Moriarty landing on top of him. Sherlock’s head slams hard on a counter, leaving him dazed. He sees a blurry Moriarty struggle to his feet, pull his own knife from his back, and then stare at it in pained shock for what feels like a long time. He drops it on the floor and locks eyes with the detective.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” he glares and winces. “The best laid plans…”

Moriarty stumbles out of the kitchen, heading for the flat’s front door and bleeding all the way. Sherlock tries to get to his feet to stop him, but his head throbs and his hands slip out from under his own weight. He falls flat on his face and resigns himself to lie on the floor until his head clears. He does manage to roll over onto his back and into a more comfortable position before settling into groggy thought. As he tries to remember where he left his mobile, he hears Moriarty’s voice drift through the flat’s open door as he makes his way down the stairs.

“I’ll be back for you, Sherrrrrlock. We’re not done.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft brings a matter to Sherlock that requires his immediate attention.  
> Sorry, friends, that's all I can say without giving too much away.

A few days after Moriarty’s visit to 221B, Sherlock and Greg are still looking for whatever hole he’s crawled into. Unfortunately, leads are in short supply and both men are irritable to say the least. On top of that, Sherlock must maintain the charade of John’s death. If he breathes a word of it to the DI or Mrs. Hudson, they will most assuredly behave differently and Moriarty will know he failed in his scheme. For whatever reason, both searching for the villain and grieving John is especially taxing on the detective. 

Sherlock walks into the flat at around 2am, jerking off his coat and scarf and draping them over a chair. He toes off his shoes as he walks to the sofa, but stops near the dining table. Staring at John’s empty chair, he suddenly feels very discouraged and exhausted. He appreciates Greg’s assistance and company, but longs for John every moment of every day. Seeing him again, talking to him, touching him are all dependent upon finding Moriarty. The man is certainly brilliant. A near-match to Sherlock, not that Sherlock would ever say it out loud, but he cannot possibly be so clever as to elude Sherlock indefinitely. 

Still, Sherlock’s shoulders sag. He walks right by the sofa and flops onto John’s chair, leaning far back and hanging his head over its cushiony top, he stares at the ceiling. God, but he misses John. Moriarty will pay for keeping them apart for even a minute. Sherlock’s eyes close almost against his will and his mind palace envelops him with visions of John…smiling, laughing, eating oatmeal, eating oatmeal while wearing his oatmeal-colored jumper. Why does he like that jumper so?

Allowing himself to be distracted by images of John floating around in his mind and his voice filling Sherlock’s ears. John’s scent rising up from the chair and drifting all around Sherlock as an annoying sensation emerges in his psyche. His chest feels heavy. Heavy enough that he isn’t certain he could sit up if he tried. The hint of another smell intrudes upon John’s in his nostrils. It’s familiar in a strange sort of way. It’s…chloroform.

Eyes snapping open and mind in sudden focus, Sherlock struggles against the man sitting on his chest and holding down his arms. Another holds his head still with a cloth over his mouth and nose. Fuck, fuck, fuck! He should have known better than to give himself over to his mind palace entirely. Sentiment, he thinks as his limbs grow heavy and hard to move. His vision blurs.

_ Yes, John, not without its challenges, but I’d still love you any day of the week. _

***

When Sherlock opens his eyes again, he is lying on the floor in an empty, featureless room. He gets to his feet quickly and goes for the door, which is locked. No surprise there, but he scowls anyway and fishes around in all of his pockets for something he can use to jimmy the lock only to find them empty. Also no surprise. He starts to bend forward again to examine the knob more closely when it suddenly turns and opens. Sherlock starts back in spite of himself, but recovers quickly and readies himself for attack. Instead, he meets the cool blue eyes of his brother. 

“What the fuck…” he shouts in a rage. 

“Dr. Watson has undoubtedly been a positive influence on you in countless ways, dear brother,” is Mycroft’s response, “but your language is not one of them.”

The detective’s scowl immediately melts away and is replaced with intense worry. Something is wrong. He can tell from Mycroft’s posture and the lines around his eyes. He needed to bring him here without Moriarty knowing why or that it was him, so a mock-kidnapping. Sherlock takes a step closer and speaks in an serious tone.

“This is about John. What’s happened?”

“Mummy always said you were far too intelligent for your own good.” He sighs and puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The younger man nearly recoils, wanting to brush his hand away and tell him to piss off. He might have, but his brother’s sad face stops him cold. Something is very wrong. “He’s dying, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mouth falls open in unabashed shock. He stumbles back a few steps and stares.

“As I said before, we did not anticipate the fall,” he hesitates. “Dr. Watson insisted on helping with the capture of Moriarty and it was to his detriment. The leg wound he sustained became infected and antibiotics have proven ineffective. We have administered a new cocktail of medication of Dr. Watson’s suggestion, but with no certainty that it will work and with his condition deteriorating rapidly over the last 48 hours… The situation is very grave, Sherlock. I brought you here to see him. It may be your last opportunity.”

Sherlock bites back his fear and anger, and resists the urge to punch Mycroft for simply being the messenger. Instead he quietly follows him out of the room to an elevator and then down a few hallways until they reach a door that looks like every other, except that John is behind this one and that makes it the most important door Sherlock will ever walk through. 

Mycroft opens the door silently and ushers Sherlock in. The lights are low. John has an IV drip, fluids and antibiotics and other medications, and a heart monitor that beeps away steadily as if telling the time. The time left in a man’s life.

“He’s been in and out of consciousness for the last 36 hours. He is not always lucid,” Mycroft says in a hushed voice. Sherlock doesn’t look at him, unable to tear his eyes away from the small man on the  bed. “I’ll leave you alone.”

Once Sherlock is alone, he takes in every detail of the scene before him. John is deathly pale. His breaths are rapid and shallow. The wet cloth over his forehead and a nearby basin of cool water are clearly meant to keep his fever down. His face is covered with sweat. His hair is nearly soaked with it, his pajamas and sheets damp. They must have been changed recently or they would be as wet as the rest of him.

Sherlock takes the cloth off of his forehead carefully and dunks it in the basin. Wringing it out just enough that it will not drip and folding it into a perfect rectangle, he places it back on John’s hot skin. He watches him, longing to speak and touch, but not daring to. John’s head twitches and his eyes move frantically beneath their lids. Unable to hold back any longer, he touches the small hand resting on the covers. It is cold and clammy - nothing like the soft, warm skin he’s accustomed to. He leans close and kisses John’s barely parted lips. Two tired, deep blue eyes are focused on his own silver ones when Sherlock pulls back to look at his flatmate.

“Sherlock,” John whispers. His voice is rough and he wets his dry lips. “What, what are you doing? Why are you here? God, must be hallucinating.”

“No, you aren’t, John. I’m here. I came to see you,” he replies quietly, smiling affectionately and wrapping his fingers around John’s hand. “At Mycroft’s insistence, of course. He seems to think you are dying.”

John puffs a short breath in what seems like agreement. Certainly not a denial, in any case. Sherlock fixes him with hard and determined eyes.

“He is wrong.”

“He’s never wrong,” John contradicts him. He closes his eyes and sighs. If ever Sherlock thought he would see John Watson give up, a thought that had never crossed his mind, it would look like this. Sherlock suddenly feels a warm energy working its way up his body, all the way from his toes to the crown of his head. John is ready to give up without him. Maybe he already has and that is why Mycroft felt he had to bring Sherlock here. He had to spare his baby brother actually losing the love of his life, whether he approves of it or not. And now Sherlock must see to it that John has the strength to continue.

Never feeling more certain of a deduction or plan in his life, Sherlock takes John’s hot face in both hands and tilts it up so their eyes meet. John looks at him curiously and tilts his head into the touch of Sherlock’s right hand.

“He. Is. Wrong. He has never been right about you, John.Your will and determination, intelligence and capacity to love are qualities can never understand and has always underestimated.” He looks deeply into those dark blue eyes and sees a spark just beginning to surface in the hopelessness. “You, John, are going to be fine. The fever will break, your body will heal, you will come home with me, and I will care for you. We will talk and laugh and work and I will make love to you from every sunset to sunrise.”

John can’t help but huff a laugh at Sherlock’s last words and the detective smiles. It might have been a short laugh, but it was real and the corners of John’s mouth curled ever so slightly.

“Only at night then?” his blogger jokes tiredly.

“Merely an example,” his detective shrugs. “I place no restrictions on our sexual exploits.”

John’s eyes close in exhaustion as he giggles quietly. Sherlock presses another gentle kiss to his lips. When they part, their lips still close enough to touch, a contented sigh escapes from John’s throat. His hot breath blows over Sherlock’s mouth, making him shiver. His senses are flooded with John Watson and, unable to stop himself, he presses in again. This time the tip of his tongue traces John’s chapped lips. Before he can draw away, his flatmate’s tongue slides smoothly along his own and the two wind together. The kisses are soft and slow, almost lazy, and perfect.

John softly sucks at Sherlock’s lower lip before releasing his mouth. They both open their eyes to see the other’s dark with arousal. About to speak, Sherlock is silenced when he notices a tear slowly working its way down the side of John’s face to his ear. He strokes it away with his thumb, concern in his eyes.

“God, I missed you.” He blinks, trying to blink back more tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I lied to you.”

Sherlock shakes his head, the corners of his mouth turning up. He meets John’s eyes. 

“It’s okay. I understand. I would have done the same to protect you.”

“Two of a kind, yeah?” John struggles to smile around the sadness.

“Mm, not quite, but close. And I prefer to call it hopelessly devoted,” he jokes, getting a small laugh from his flatmate. Sherlock sighs quietly and looks at John fondly. “I love you, John. I love you so much.”

He takes John in his arms and presses a kiss to his forehead. Much to his surprise, he feels slow hands weakly creep around his body to rest on either side of his back. There is even a little tug pulling him closer.

_ And so, it begins... _

***

Two weeks of Sherlock’s careful ministrations and excessive snuggling, not to mention the new antibiotics, have aided John in his recovery. His fever has broken and the infection is well on its way to complete eradication. Why nothing worked before Sherlock joined him, John cannot say. However, cliche it may be, or foolish it makes him feel, it appears that Sherlock is the key medicine John needed to recover. 

He has seen it happen a handful of times in his many years as a doctor. People call it a miracle. While he cannot subscribe to that, he cannot deny that he has seen some amazing recoveries seemingly due simply to the presence of loved ones. John finds himself with mixed feelings now that he appears to be so heavily influenced by Sherlock. On one hand, he feels touched and ecstatic that they would have such a strong connection. It’s true that Sherlock means everything to him. He can’t imagine a world without Sherlock in it, but has he become too dependent upon his flatmate?

“No,” that deep, melodious voice answers his unspoken question. John’s eyes come back into focus to see the face of his beautiful flatmate before him.

“Sorry, what? My turn?” John queries, looking at the Cluedo board.

“You are not dependent upon me in an unhealthy way. And, yes, it is your turn.”

“The fuck,” incredulous and taking the die from Sherlock. “How do you do that?”

“Did I not mention that reading the minds of those I love is one of my many talents?”

“I’m quite certain I would remember if you had.” John moves his playing piece into a room on the game board and sits back in the bed he has been in for what feels like forever. He’s sick of it. If it weren’t for Sherlock, he would be completely mental. He smiles broadly at the detective and rubs his hands together. “Right. I am in the dining room and I think it was Miss Grey with the lead pipe.”

“Well, that’s a very good guess,” Sherlock scans his cards, selects one, and flips it around for John to see. He cocks a brow and gives John a clever smile, “but it was not the lead pipe.”

“Hmmm, not the lead pipe,” John marks his evidence record while Sherlock picks up the die to roll it, but stops when he sees John’s troubled expression. He raises his eyebrows in unspoken question.

“Have you heard anything from Mycroft? About Moriarty?”

“Nope,” he pops his ‘P’ and rolls the die, continuing his trek to the conservatory. John rolls and moves.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock asks while rolling the die, not even looking at John. The doctor watches his detective move his playing piece.

“I shouldn’t be so impatient. It’s just…I want to go home.”

Sherlock meets his eyes with sincerity in his own and takes John’s hand. Then he grins mischievously. 

“Anxious to make good on my nightly promise?” They both grin and John looks away, cheeks flushed. “You’ve been here a long time, John. I can understand your desire to be at home again, but you aren’t quite ready physically and you know it’s still too dangerous with Moriarty out there.”

“I know,” he whispers. John rolls, moves his piece, and offers the die to Sherlock. He takes it, his hand lingering as it brushes against John’s. “It bothers you that you aren’t helping, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes, “but I’d much rather be here with you and that’s the truth.” He smiles very sincerely at John and then clears his throat. “There is another matter we have yet to discuss.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock diverts his gaze to the board and rolls the die around in his palm. He rolls it and moves his playing piece.

“Yes. Some things will have to, ahem, change.”

“Okay…” John says slowly, not sure what to make of Sherlock’s demeanor. What does he want to change? John’s shoulders drop ever so slightly as a thought comes to mind. Suppose Sherlock wants to work on cases alone. Not just while John is laid up, but always. Maybe he has decided that the risks are too high and he wants to ban John from helping. John bites his lip. He cannot bear the thought and is about to protest this unfair, unilateral decision when Sherlock looks back at him with nervous eyes and licks his lips. What he says is not at all what John expectes, his every thought derailed.

“Surely it has not escaped your notice that your mobility will be somewhat impaired.”

“What?”

“There’s nothing to be done about the stairs up to the flat,” his flatmate shrugs, “but the flight to your room… You can’t make it up and down on your own.”

“Ah,” John leans back against the pillows, befuddled. “Well, you can help me down in the morning and then up again at night. I’ll just make sure I have everything I might need for the day.”

“Suppose I leave before you’re awake?”

“Unlikely,” John laughs. “Besides you could just wake me.”

“Suppose you forget something you need.”

“I’ll make do.”

“No. I must insist upon a different arrangement.”

“Sherlock, you’re really making this into a bigger deal than it is.”

“You must… You should move into my room,” Sherlock barrels on, the nervous hesitation returning to his voice, “with me.”

John’s lips part and brows raise in disbelief. Sherlock stares back, trying to read John’s face. It is annoyingly devoid of all emotion other than surprise. As the silence drags on, Sherlock’s neck grows hot, quickly followed by his cheeks. Soon he’s flushed and embarrassed and desperately wishing he hadn’t said a word.

“With you? In your bed? With you?” John questions him, his eyes wide and mouth gaping. Sherlock watches him for a moment before he responds. John is not ready for this. Moving into Sherlock’s room was the farthest thing from his mind. The detective tries to cover.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to presume…”

“Yes, you did.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’d love to.”

Now it is Sherlock’s turn to gape at John, who smiles genuinely and leans over the game board as far as he can. He pulls Sherlock by the collar to close the gap between their lips. His tongue boldly explores every inch of the detective’s mouth as he responds in kind.

After a few minutes, Sherlock pulls away with a grin on his face and shoves the game toward the end of the bed. Climbing onto his knees, he straddles John’s good leg and reclaims his mouth. When he feels John’s hands warm on his back, arms wrapped around his waist, Sherlock slowly eases him back until they both lay on the bed. A quiet moan escapes John’s throat as he and Sherlock kiss slowly and deliberately.

John’s hands snake up Sherlock’s body to tangle in his dark curls. The man tilts his head so John has easy access to his irresistible neck. He mouths his way from Sherlock’s lips, along his jawline, to said neck. Sherlock takes the opportunity to nibble at John’s ear. His hands roaming down John’s sides to grasp a fistful of tee in each and ruck it up over the waistband of John’s pajama bottoms. The small noise of surprise from John as Sherlock touches his cool hands to John’s warm belly is delicious and goes straight to Sherlock’s cock. He finds John’s lips again for a kiss and then smiles against them.

“I have one condition to your moving in.”

“That I throw out all my pajamas?”

Sherlock pulls away with a thoughtful expression, pursing his lips and looking at John.

“Two conditions.”

John giggles and cranes his neck to nip at Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock shoots him a serious look, but there is a sparkle in his eyes.

“So that’s one then,” John smiles at his love. “What’s the other?”

“That we replace my bedding with yours.”

“What?” John laughs. “Really? It won’t fit the mattress. Why?”

“I know a place that can make it bigger. They already have the fabric.”

“You’re serious.”

“Absolutely.”

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulls him down close.

“All right then. Spill it. Why is this a condition? Why would it even matter?”

Sherlock shifts slightly, eyes darting away from those shining deep blues.

“I found I prefer them.” John raises his brows as Sherlock continues. “I…I missed you. I would go into your room and lie down and think of you. It sounds like torture, I know, and maybe it was. I expected to feel closer to you, but I never did. Perhaps because you weren’t dead.” He stops for a moment, looking at John with far away eyes as if seeing right through him. John cups his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face. His thumbs stroking his cheeks.

“Hey. Are you okay?”

Sherlock’s eyes refocus. He pulls his head back for a better look at John. In spite of his embarrassment and desire to hide while he makes this confession, the need to see John’s face outweighs the shame.

“I slept in your room every night, John. Well, when I say slept…” he pauses. “Even after I knew you were alive, especially then. I felt close to you then. Your room was comforting. Everything around me was you and your bedding…I…it…” His brows are raised as high as John has ever seen them and he looks incredibly timid and young. Whatever kink Sherlock is about to reveal, he seems to fear it will be a deal-breaker for John. John’s tongue darts across his own bottom lip as he looks at Sherlock in anticipation. “It’s just that…yourbeddingsmellslikeyou.” 

He blurts the last few words in a fast string and then closes his mouth quickly. The silence that follows is deafening and Sherlock has a strong sense of deja vu, trying to read John’s face and failing. But then, he notices a corner of John’s mouth quirking up. As he watches, warmth filling his chest, a wide smile spreads across John’s face.

“You want to use my bedding because it smells like me?”

Sherlock’s cheeks flush an even darker pink. Embarrassment seeps from every pore and he immediately wishes he could bury his head under the covers and disappear. 

“That is what I said, yes.”

John’s smile sweetens into one more of endearment than amusement. Sherlock is absolutely adorable at this moment and John can’t stop himself from giggling.

“That is just so precious.” Sherlock’s eyes snap back to John’s with a snarl on his lips and John laughs. “You do know I’ll be right next to you, right?”

Sherlock’s lips turn up into that genuine smile that belongs to John and John alone, and he shrugs. John laughs and pulls Sherlock down again to kiss him. He pours everything he can into it. Sherlock knows how John feels, but he must know its true extent. Everything that John hasn’t figured out how to say. The things that won’t be done justice with words anyway.  **Everything** goes into this kiss. He loves Sherlock more deeply than he ever thought possible and he wants to be with him. Always.

***

A few weeks later and John’s recovery is nearly complete. Both he and Sherlock are becoming restless. Mycroft’s hideaway has become more like a comfortable prison than a safe house. While Sherlock constantly fights the madness that comes from being unable to do the Work, John’s frustration stems from the fact that Mycroft’s damn doctors refuse to let him out of bed. He is perfectly able to move about with crutches. At this point, just sitting in a chair instead of his goddamn bed would be a welcome change.

Naturally, he sneaks out of bed periodically, but is usually caught by Sherlock. The man seems to have a sixth sense for knowing when John breaks doctor’s orders. Also a source of frustration and, somehow, damn hot at the same time.

John lies in bed with his brows raised, mouth open, and head pressed back against his pillow. He gasps and grabs a fistful of blanket with one hand.

“Oh!” he moans quietly. His back arches and he bites his bottom lip, desperate to keep quiet. Closing his eyes tightly with an audible gasp, he holds his breath, minutely shaking his head from side to side. Suddenly, his eyes and mouth snap open. His whole body tense, head and shoulders lifting off the bed. Instead of shouting like he wants, he manages to hold it down to a whisper. “Oh…god. Oh, god!”

His good leg is bent with his foot flat on the mattress, now pressing down hard in an attempt to lift his lower half off the bed. However, another force holds him down as waves of pleasure crash over his shuddering body.

“Jesus…Christ…FUCK!”

John sits straight up as a mind-bending orgasm rips through his body. His brain turns off, eyes seeing nothing but blackness and stars, but still he somehow manages not to scream Sherlock’s name. He is breathing heavily when he drops onto his back again with a thud, the muscles in his body finally relaxing again. The gears in his brain are beginning to turn as Sherlock emerges from under the covers and into John’s vision. He wears a wide smile and captures John’s mouth with it. John tastes himself mixed with Sherlock’s sweet, milky tea taste. God, this man. Everything he is, everything John learns about him only makes John more certain of his love’s intensity. The good and the bad, John wants it all. All of Sherlock for every day of his life.

John lets out a soft moan and lightly bites at Sherlock’s bottom lip as they part. Sherlock smiles against his mouth.

“Your self-control is admirable, Dr. Watson.”

“God, Sherlock, what you do with that mouth should be illegal.”

“I’m quite sure it is in some countries. I did warn you. I believe you called me smug and cocky. A bit repetitive, don’t you think?” he gives John a mock frown.

“You are both smug and cocky,” John laughs. Sherlock tries to deepen his frown, but can’t help himself and chuckles instead. He kiss John’s smiling lips again. “Thank god the heart monitor’s gone or Mycroft and every doctor and nurse in the building would be in here.”

“I believe I also mentioned entertaining ourselves would be much more interesting once the monitor was removed.“

“Interesting?”

“Did you not find it interesting?” Sherlock pulls back, armed with a smug smile. “Because you seemed riveted to me.”

“Sherlock,” John wraps his arms around the detective’s neck, tousling his mussed curls as he moves, “that was the most spectacular orgasm…”

Sherlock interrupts him with a long, languid kiss.

“I hope to outdo myself next time.”

“Christ, you’re going to be the death of me.“

Sherlock matches John’s brilliant smile with a wide grin and kisses him again. Sliding their tongues together slowly, but hungrily. John’s hand cradles the nape of Sherlock’s neck, inching him closer and deepening the kiss.

The near silence in the room is broken by a familiar voice loudly clearing its throat. The two men turn their heads to see an extremely irritated, but hiding it moderately well, Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway. However, his eyes go wide when he gets a better look at his younger brother.

“Good god, Sherlock, tell me you’re clothed.”

“And what if I’m not?” Sherlock quips. Mycroft walks to the bed with a threatening expression and grumbles in a low voice.

“I would drag you out of that bed and dress you myself!”

“I’d like to see you try.”

“All right!” John interrupts. They both look at him in pure annoyance. He lowers his voice to normal volume and continues. “Let’s not do this now, children. We can all have a civil conversation.” He pushes Sherlock’s shoulders in suggestion that he get out of bed and turns his attention to the elder Holmes when Sherlock begins to slide off his body. “Mycroft, you must have some news or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Very perceptive, John.” He shoots a judgmental look at Sherlock, who is now standing beside the bed and glaring at Mycroft.

“Well, what is it?” he prods, wanting to resume more intimate and highly desirable activities with his flatmate. Seeing it written on his face, Mycroft studies his brother with angry eyes and then addresses both men. 

“Moriarty has been found.”

“You have him in custody?” John is wide-eyed and leaning forward in the bed.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Oh, for god sake, Mycroft! Have your minions lost him already?”

“Sherlock!”

“He’s dead,” Mycroft says calmly.

Silence. Bewildered stares.

“I thought that might get your attention.”

“Dead. Where? How?” Sherlock steps closer and fixes Mycroft with an intense stare.

“A flat on the lower side. He has been dead for some time.”

“How long?” John asks curiously, not daring to believe it’s true.

“Shortly after he paid Sherlock that last visit I told you about,” he looks to his brother with a smirk that John would swear had ‘Nicely done’ written all over it if he didn’t know them better. “Oddly enough, it appears as though he acquired an infection from the stab wound he sustained. He obviously stitched it himself and must have neglected to take all of the proper precautions.”

“He’s not stupid,” Sherlock snorts. “I find it difficult to believe that he neglected anything. Not to mention antibiotics are not hard to come by without a prescription.”

John’s eyes slide to the detective. He’s not even going to ask how Sherlock knows that and looks back at Mycroft instead.

“He’d lost a lot of blood, Sherlock. He was weak. His mental faculties were diminished.”

“His mental faculties are never diminished.”

“Nevertheless, he is dead.”

Silence. John wrinkles his brow and looks down at his own lap, letting Mycroft’s words sink in. It sounds so ludicrous. Can Moriarty really have died from something so simple as an infected wound just as John nearly did? Then John’s whole face suddenly brightens, his mind suddenly overtaken by a more pleasant thought. 

“So, we can go home then.”

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head. “No. It’s been weeks. He would have begun to decompose. Depending on the conditions of the flat - temperature, humidity - it could be quite advanced.”

“It was” the elder Holmes mumbles.

“The body you found could be anyone!” he shouts angrily.

“It’s been analyzed quite thoroughly, I assure you, brother.”

“By  **your** fools?! I wouldn’t trust them to give me a tetanus!”  

“Which is why the autopsy and examination were overseen by Dr. Molly Hooper.”

“Molly?” John queries, a note of surprise in his voice. He wouldn’t have thought Molly would want anything to do with someone as dangerous as Moriarty. Then again, he did manipulate her in order to get close to Sherlock, which led directly to the incident at the pool. She was angry enough to have a good rant with John while Sherlock was out of the lab for a moment. He and Molly had become quite good friends in the years since they met, but they had never shared such a candid discussion before. Probably due, in part, to Sherlock’s absence at the time. Though Molly knows the detective and his blogger are together, and is happy for them, she still remains a bit skittish around the tall man.  

“Molly determined the body is his?” Sherlock derails John’s thoughts with the question.

“Yes, Sherlock,” his brother replies smugly. “I knew you would believe it from no one else. The confirmation is positive. There is no doubt.”

The detective looks at his blogger, who smiles back brightly. They can go home. They can finally go home! God, John wants to get back to the surgery and The Work and to grocery shopping. Not his favorite thing, but it’s amazing what you miss when you can’t go out. John’s eyes widen and worry creeps over his face. And sleeping with Sherlock. Moving into his room. They had shared a bed before, but John hadn’t actually moved anything into Sherlock’s room. This is a huge step. One he hadn’t considered when he agreed to do it. He wets his lips and looks at his detective, wondering if Sherlock himself had considered all of the implications of his request. Typically, John would say yes, but Sherlock has proven to be somewhat oblivious to such things when it comes to relationships.

“As soon as our good doctor is cleared, the two of you are free to resume your lives on Baker Street,” Mycroft supplies with a rare genuine smile. John pushes himself up to sit and looks at the Holmes brothers with raised brows. 

“Then get your doctors in here and let’s get on with it.”

“In the morning, John. It will keep until then.”

“The hell it will.”

“I’m afraid it will have to,” Mycroft grumbles. “My physicians are not going to release you tonight. I guarantee it.”

John fixes him with cold eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line. He lets out a long, angry breath and starts to get out of bed. Mycroft’s eyes widen, his poker face slipping for a split-second.

“Then I’ll leave without their approval.”

Sherlock quickly lays a hand on John’s chest and John looks at him in surprise.

“John…” he begins, his eyes narrowed, “I have the feeling my brother has something on his mind.”

“I wonder,” the man bows his head slightly and gives them that signature smile, “would you join me in the hall, brother mine?”

John rolls his eyes and tries to get up, throwing the covers off. Sherlock presses his chest firmly to stop him. John looks down at his warm hand, his long index finger gently stroking. John’s incredulous eyes slowly glide up to meet glimmering silver irises.

“I think it may be best to stay just one more night,” the detective says softly. John’s countenance darkens in frustration. He lowers his chin and gives Sherlock an intense look of pique.

“Sherlo…”

Sherlock swiftly bends and presses his lips to John’s chastely. It is a short kiss, but long enough to keep him from continuing his sentence when their lips part. John sighs when Sherlock pulls away, his shoulders sagging slightly. The detective looks at him expectantly, a glint of hope in his eye.

“Fine,” John breathes. “One night.”

Sherlock straightens up and takes a step back, giving John a small smile and taking his hand. He gives it a squeeze.

“That’s all I ask.” then he and Mycroft are walking to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Mycroft closes the door after Sherlock steps passed him and into the hall. They face each other, Sherlock looking at him with irritation. Every inch of his body exudes annoyance and he wants to make sure his brother sees every bit of it. To his mild surprise, the older man looks just as furious.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snaps.

“Rotting while you keep John prisoner,” Sherlock quips.

“He is not…” Mycroft begins loudly and then lowers his voice, “a prisoner. His last dose of antibiotics will be administered in the morning and then you may both go.”

“How gracious of you,” Sherlock replies in a sarcastic tone. He tries to push by and go back into John’s room, but Mycroft puts a hand on his shoulder and stops him. They exchange an icy glare.

“Whatever I walked in on, it seems I arrived just in time.”

“Fuck off.”

“You are toying with things you can’t possibly understand.”

“I have been in relationships before, Mycroft. I fully aware of how to handle myself.”

“This is different, Sherlock. Surely you must realize that. You are exposing your heart. Don’t try to tell me you have done  **that** before.”

“I told you I’m not going to deny it anymore!” he glares. Of course he knows this is different. This is spectacular, unbelievable. Never in his life had he imagined there could be a John Watson, nor that he would ever meet him. He always thought what his mother told him about finding ‘that one person, the one who makes you feel like a whole person’ was complete twattle. Or, at least, it was for him. The brilliant boy who didn’t give a rat’s ass about being polite or following conventions. He would never find this person and believed for years that such a person, for him, did not even exist. Finding John has truly been one of the great mysteries of his life and one he would likely never unravel.  

“I know that,” Mycroft snaps him from his thoughts, “but I didn’t think you would…”

“What? Shack up?” the younger snarls. Mycroft closes his eyes slowly, touching his fingers to his forehead.

“Not immediately, no.”

“Immediately?” Sherlock spouts incredulously.

“It’s not like you to rush into something like this.”

“John and I have lived together for years! Lived with Mrs. Hudson’s innuendo for years!”

“Your choice of partner in the past…”

“John is  **nothing** like anyone I have been with before,” the detective nearly shouts, quieting only when he considers the possibility of John hearing. “He is a good man and has no interest in using me.”

“Yes, he is a good man, but that doesn’t mean he’s the right one,” Mycroft sighs and moves a bit closer to his brother. “He’s hurt you already and lied. You must exercise caution and protect your heart. Don’t just give it away to the first decent human being who crosses your path. He may be right, but still not the right one.”

Sherlock studies his brother for a moment.  _ What the hell do you know about it? _ he wants to say. Mycroft hasn’t had a descent, real relationship in his life. Instead, he says simply.

“It’s too late for that, Mycroft. I have given him my heart and I have no desire to take it back,” he watches as Mycroft closes his eyes in regret and then looks at him like he’s about to tackle the biggest puzzle of his life. “You remember what Mum said? All relationships have trials. It’s impossible to never hurt the one you love.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft starts, condescension on his face, “don’t bring Mummy into this.”

“Why not? Because she’s right?” he gets up into his brother’s personal space and glowers. “Damn it, I’m not a child! You can’t control everything, least of all, me. If you cannot accept my relationship with John, you needn’t come back to Baker Street.”

Straightening to exploit his full height, which is just over a half inch taller than his elder, he gives Mycroft a resolute look and then opens the door to John’s room. Once he is safely on the other side of the closed door, he lets out a deep breath and turns to see John looking at him from his bed. 

“That sounded a bit heated,” John grimaces. Sherlock relaxes his shoulders as he walks across the room. He takes in the scene before him as he nears the bed. John’s legs are under the cover of bedding and he wears a plain, white tee that stretches attractively over his broad shoulders and chest. His blonde hair is mussed, his lips curved into a smile. In truth, he looks no different than when the brothers Holmes left the room, but Sherlock suddenly feels as though he is looking at him for the first time. As he approaches, his fingers tingle with the urge to touch him. “Are you okay?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s nothing.”

“You’re sure? You look a little unsettled. More than usual after a row with Mycroft.”

“I assure you that has nothing to do with him. Nothing he says can shake me.”

John’s cheeks are flushed, although Sherlock isn’t entirely sure why. A smile creeps across his face as he looks into those deep blue eyes. They have been best friends and flatmates for over two years, and now there’s so much more to learn. So much data to be gathered. A feeling like electricity tingles through Sherlock’s body.

“I decided what we’ll play tonight while you were chatting,” John smiles and holds up a deck of playing cards. “Gin. And no cheating with that big brain of yours.”

“I am certain I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock sits with his hands steepled before his chest and an expression of innocence on his face.

“Uh-huh,” John regards him with playful doubt.

For the next few hours, the conversation flows easily. They joke and laugh, talk about past cases and how good it will be to work on more, to see Greg and Molly. John momentarily panics at one point at the thought of telling Mrs. Hudson he’s still alive. Sherlock just smiles, assuring him that she’ll be delighted and relieved. Sherlock has known Mrs. Hudson for years and loves her dearly, and finds himself deeply moved that John has grown to care for her in the same way. He can’t help but smile like a fool for most of the time they play cards.

Just before midnight, John’s heavy eyelids close and his head bows forward to his chest. Sherlock grins at his adorable friend and places his own cards on the table. Getting to his feet, he moves the table away from the bed and gently pulls the cards from John’s clasped fingers. With a hand behind John’s head and the other holding a shoulder, Sherlock lowers the sleeping doctor onto his side. Sherlock goes to the light switch and turns off all but a small table light. John stirs and opens his eyes to see Sherlock laying his suit coat across a chair.

“Mmm….Sherlock.”

“Shh. Budge over.”

John moves back a skosh and Sherlock joins him in the narrow bed. Pulling the covers over them both and then wrapping his arms around his sleepy flatmate, he lightly brushes his lips over John’s. Sighing and opening his eyes, John leans a fraction of an inch closer and presses his soft lips against the detective’s parted ones, instantly feeling a warm tongue slide across his own. Sighing again, John tucks his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and slips an arm around his waist.

“I love you…hmmmm.”

Sherlock smiles as John hums and drifts off. He kisses the man’s forehead.

“I love you, John. My life would never be the same without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely LOVE the comments I have received so far. You are all awesome!  
> Feel free to send more. They really help keep this story alive. Thank you all for reading.
> 
> I just realized how that sounds. Don't worry. I'll keep updating. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, my friends, that this has been so long in coming. I was on a very long holiday and while I planned to edit/post in the evenings, it did not come to fruition. I hope you can all forgive me. I do think this chapter was worth waiting for. It certainly makes me smile. Apologies for any type-o's. I don't think I caught them all.
> 
> Notice some of the tags have changed and the rating has gone from Mature to Explicit. (insert infamous eyebrow waggle)
> 
> Now, the chapter summary.  
> Our sleuth and his blogger go home.  
> Hudders is tickled pink. Mycroft meddles. John confesses. Sherlock learns.  
> Oh, and then there's some porn, y'all.

The final dose of antibiotics is administered first thing in the morning. John is given a thorough examination and given the go-ahead to leave. He and Sherlock quickly get a cab to Baker Street, wanting to escape Mycroft’s clutches as soon as possible.

Sherlock quietly opens the street door, leaving John outside, and knocks on Mrs. Hudson’s door. She dives at him for a rib-crushing hug, demanding to know where he’s been for the last two months. Chattering non-stop about her fears that he had run off to a drug den to forget John forever or thrown himself into the Thames. She had insisted Lestrade do everything he could to find Sherlock and checked with him weekly, but there was never any news, and how discouraging that was.  _ And, good lord, Sherlock must call the DI right away because he’s very worried. He’s grown so close to you and John. More than you know. _

Seeing his opening, Sherlock mentions John and, rather more delicately than one would ever imagine of him, explains that John is alive and that is where Sherlock has been all this time. After a good ten minutes of blunt questions from Mrs. Hudson and careful answers from Sherlock, he ushers her to 221′s street door and opens it. The elderly woman steps out to see John standing just to the side, cast covering his leg and supported by crutches. With tears in her eyes, Mrs. Hudson squeals and rushes to wrap her arms around him, whispering in his ear while she crushes him.

Once Sherlock finally convinces her to let go, which first results in her hugging them both tightly, she and the detective help John get up the seventeen steps to 221B. Before either man can utter a word, Mrs. Hudson makes breakfast and spends the morning with them. She chatters continually. Sometimes telling them about Lestrade or Molly or herself, sometimes about nothing at all. The excitement of having  _ her boys _ back home again leading the conversation in every which way. In spite of themselves, the two men cannot help but grin like idiots and listen to her every word. Her energy is infectious and they both missed her a great deal.

Mrs. Hudson takes her leave around one that afternoon, mentioning some plans with friends that she really should not cancel and giving the duo time to settle into being at home again. Though neither has ever mentioned the change in their relationship to her, her adoring smiles and side glances say she knows it all. Both are set to blushing at her departing words when she promises not to return until late the next morning and then gives them a salacious wink.

Sherlock returns to the sitting room after seeing Mrs. Hudson out of the flat, his face a dark shade of crimson. John smiles at him from where he sits on the sofa with his legs up.

“I must apologize for Mrs. Hudson. She is the sweetest woman I have ever known, but she can be quite…” clearing his throat, “lewd.”

John just laughs, delighting in his friend’s flustered demeanor. It is so rare for Sherlock to appear any way but completely collected. It is, without a doubt, adorable. A word that has followed John his entire life, much to his chagrin, but he is more than happy to apply it to Sherlock now, even if only in his mind. He raises his arms and reaches for the detective.

“C’mere.”

Sherlock takes his hands and lets himself be pulled to the sofa. He gently lifts John’s legs, cast and all, and sits next to him. His fingers run along John’s good leg where it lays on his lap, but he doesn’t venture too high up on that tantalizing and  muscular thigh. They sit this way in comfortable silence for a few minutes until John touches Sherlock’s shoulder gently. The detective’s muscles tense and John withdraws his hand, only to touch again lightly with his fingertips.

“What’s wrong?” John asks quietly. Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs. His expression is one of frustration as he curses his blasted transport for revealing his concerned state of mind. He opens his eyes, but stares straight ahead.

“I know I insisted you move in with me, but I feel a bit…nervous.”

“It’s a big step.”

“It is,” he looks at John, trying to read him, and seeing only honesty and concern. “For me. You may have shared a bed, a room with someone before, but I… The thought has never occurred.”

“You’ve had other relationships.”

“Sexual, yes. Never anything like this. No one has ever been permitted to sleep in my bed. Not for one night and certainly not forever.”

“Forever?” John brows raise into his hairline. Sherlock licks his lips, which prompts John to do the same without thinking. That is all Sherlock needs. He looks into the man’s deep blue eyes, leans close, and rests his lips against John’s. A shiver runs down John’s spine as Sherlock’s lips begin to move slowly. John’s eyes flutter closed and his mouth opens. He feels a warm tongue teasing its way in, its tip flicks at his own and at his teeth. Little licks follow shortly thereafter and John begins to respond with his own. All too soon, Sherlock draws away. His face is still very close to John. His warm breath drifts over the doctor’s face as he speaks quietly.

“Forever. That’s what I would like, John. That is what I ask. I have never given my heart to anyone. Never told anyone I loved them. You are the first and last.”

John’s eyes go soft and he blinks back the moisture collecting in their corners. He can’t believe Sherlock is telling him all this. These words he has wished and hoped to hear from his detective for...for more than months. A bloody long time, in fact, but he never believed he would. He blinks in pleasant surprise and watches as Sherlock casts his eyes down to look at John’s chest, embarrassed. But he doesn’t stop talking. He meets John’s eyes again with a cautious certainty and presses on.

“John, I will never regret anything I have said to you. My only source of anxiety at this moment is that I am moving too quickly. I promised I would not rush you. Into sex or a relationship or…” Sherlock’s throat goes dry. He quickly drops the sentence, not wanting to play out his hand too quickly. “I mean to keep that promise.”

John looks at the detective with wet and very wide eyes. Is Sherlock saying what it sounds like he is? Or is John just hearing what he wants to? Sherlock has never made any secret of his feelings about matrimony. Tying one’s self to another human being is simply not on. Surely that is not what he was about to say before abruptly cutting himself off. But then what was he going to say?

No. John gives his head a little shake as Sherlock cocks a brow, studying him carefully. There is no way Sherlock Holmes is thinking about marriage. None whatsoever. John focuses in on the detective again, having zoned out a bit whilst considering the man’s words. Sherlock’s brow is furrowed, his eyes suspicious. Shit. John’s probably broadcasting every thought as it passes through his mind. 

“You aren’t rushing anything. You’re perfect,” he says quickly. “The pace you’ve set, your patience - you are perfect for me.” He slots his fingers with Sherlock’s, brings the hand to his lips, and kisses it gently. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” the man replies without hesitation.

“Then believe my promise to you. I will tell you if things get overwhelming or go too fast. I will never just leave without saying a word. I don’t know what’s happened to you in the past, but I know it hurt you. I won’t.”

“That is unrealistic, John,” Sherlock begins matter-of-factly, but John cuts him off before he can continue. 

“I will not hurt you intentionally,” he places Sherlock’s palm over his chest so he can feel the regular beats coursing blood through his body. Sherlock swallows, looking at John with those intense silver eyes, able to tell that he is about to say something very momentous. “You have my whole heart. You always will.”

Sherlock simply stares back at John and then leans in for a soft, chaste kiss. He draws back, John’s beating heart still beneath his palm. His lips quirk up into a small smile. John grins at the mirth in his eyes.

“What?”

“I wish it was already night so we could go to bed.”

“Well,” John giggles, “we could move my things in. If you think you can get me up the stairs on your own.”

“Challenge accepted.”

***

John and Sherlock spend the afternoon methodically moving John’s belongings into the flat’s master bedroom. Navigating the stairs presents some challenges, but they find a work-around. When the task is complete, Sherlock leaves for the shop that has modified John’s bedding and John finishes organizing some of his belongings in their new room.

It is roughly 7:30 in the evening when Sherlock returns. He has been gone for two hours, the sun is beginning to set over the city. He enters the flat with Thai takeaway in one hand and a bag full of bedding in the other, not all that quietly, or so he thinks. He opens his mouth to announce himself as he rounds the corner to the dining area, but steps into a heated conversation between his doctor and his brother. Neither man notices him, so he ducks back behind the corner and listens.

“Have you told him the whole truth about your past?” Mycroft demands.

“Does it matter? It’s over,” John is clearly trying to preserve what is left of his patience. “It was over years ago.”

“I think it makes quite a difference, yes,” the stubborn man persists. “You were not only married, but to a woman, no less. You have had no long-lasting relationships with men, nor have you ever wanted one. All of your past experiences have been experiments, nothing more.”

“How the fuck do you suddenly know so much about my past?!” John’s voice raises to a shout, his restraint gone. Mycroft glares back at him with a smug look on his face.

“You know by now that I make what is best for my brother a top priority and protecting him from harm, physically or emotionally, is front and foremost on my mind.” 

“You underestimate your brother.”

“No, I know my brother,” he replies vehemently. “A far cry better than you do, I might add.”

“Years don’t equal knowledge, Mycroft.”

He straightens his spine and gives John a haughty glare. Not even a little intimidated, John stares him down with dark eyes.

“It was a long time ago,” John clarifies through clenched teeth. “I have never pushed Sherlock for details about his past. He has told me some things and not others. I have done the same. We respect each other’s privacy. Is that a concept you can even grasp with all your spies and cameras? It’s called trust.”

“I’ve told Sherlock to trust no one.”

“He trusts me.”

“Does he?” the older man snaps. “Does he really even know you? If he does trust you, it would seem it is misplaced.”

“Sherlock has never given me reason to think that anything in my past would give him pause,” venom layers John’s voice. ”And nothing he has asked about has ever put him off.”

“Perhaps he isn’t making the right inquiries.”

“We’re done here.”

“Tell him the truth, Dr. Watson. Tell him everything and see if he still wishes to share his bed with you. Sharing his life with you romantically will be a disaster. You will cast him aside just like your other experiments before him.”

Sherlock nearly gasps, a noise that would certainly give him away. Listening carefully, he determines that neither one suspects him, and turns his head toward the wall. Craning to hear, he peeks around the corner so he can just see Mycroft’s back and John glaring up at him, his eyes incandescent with fury.

“Sherlock is not an experiment! I love him. I would never hurt him!”

“You have already lied to him, Dr. Watson. You conscripted me to plot against him for what you perceived as his own safety.”

“You say that like it’s something you haven’t done every day of your life.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen, glued to the two men in the other room. There is a deafening silence and then Mycroft’s posture falters. He lets out a long sigh and when he speaks, his voice has its usual measured calm again.

“What I told you about my brother is true. He puts on a good show, but he is not a sociopath, as I’m sure you know, and he is very fragile. He has been hurt many times in the past by careless lovers, the death of our parents, the necessary alterations of my own role in his life.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widen even more and he very nearly gasps again. This time John twitches slightly and his focus shifts passed Mycroft. The detective snaps back against the wall and out of sight, hoping John did not see him.

“He has experienced significant heartbreak and it nearly killed him. I wanted you to end your relationship with him as soon as you came to me with your concerns about Moriarty and your plan to trick them both into believing you dead because I did not want to see my brother fall into that hole again. I will not watch him destroy himself again over someone who would use him and then cast him aside, never comprehending the value of what they had. If that is your intention, Doctor, if you are lying now and you hurt him again, I will kill you myself.”  

Sherlock cannot keep the quiet gasp that escapes his mouth and claps a hand over his lips. He leans in closer again, trying to determine if they heard him. What he hears is John’s voice, quiet and deadly. John can be truly terrifying when he wants to be.

“I have every intention of being the best partner to Sherlock that I can be,” he growls. Sherlock can’t help himself and peeks around the corner again so he can see John. Anger radiates from the smaller man like heat from a flame. “And if my reassurance isn’t enough for you, so be it. Continue your spying, but if you interfere with our life together again, I. Will. End. You.”

Sherlock watches as they stare each other down for a few tense seconds until Mycroft gives John a slight nod of understanding, which he returns. Mycroft begins to turn toward the door to the flat. Sherlock ducks into the shadows to watch him as he passes by.

“Good evening, Doctor. I’m certain we will meet again soon.”

“I can’t wait.”

Mycroft turns fully and takes his leave. A minute or so after the door has closed, Sherlock steps out of the shadows and heads back to the front door in silence. He opens and closes the door audibly, and then strides into the dining area to see John sitting at the table with a sly smile on his face.

“Thai?”

“Thai. I’ll just serve it up, shall I?” He leaves the bags on the table and takes the bedding to his...their room. Then he goes to the kitchen to brew tea and grab some plates and utensils. When he returns, it is with a mug of tea in each hand and plates tucked under his arm. John speaks as he hands him a mug.

“Did you see Mycroft on the way in?”

“I did,” he replies, placing the plates on the table and removing containers from the takeaway bag. “Hounding you again, is he?”

“When is he not?” John smiles. “I told him not to worry. You’re settling into domesticity quite well.”

Sherlock shoots him a look and continues to plate the food. He is soon finished and they are both seated and tucking into their meal. Conversation flows easily, as usual, and they spend much of the time laughing. By the time their plates are clean, Sherlock finds his hand resting on his flatmate’s, though he doesn’t remember putting it there. He looks into the man’s eyes and sighs, almost unable to believe how content he is. John smiles back at him with that look of pure delight on his face. Sherlock loves that face. It is one that John saves especially for him. He finds himself wanting to stay at the table in this moment all night just looking at John’s face and taking in every detail. Sherlock wants to rise and stand next to him, so he can touch his face and kiss his cheeks and nose and eyes. Kiss his jawline and neck, pull his jumper and t-shirt down low enough to gain access to a collarbone.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm? What?” realizing he had gone very far away in his thoughts. John may have been talking the whole time, but he does not seem irritated.

“You have that look again.”

“Thinking,” he unconsciously squeezes John’s hand. “I was just thinking. I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying attention. What were you saying?”

“About?”

“About?” Sherlock repeats.

“Sex.”

“What?” Sherlock is truly dumbfounded. He stares at John with wide eyes, wondering just what the hell he’d been saying while the detective was lost in thought. John, on the other hand, grins back brightly and nearly giggles. He turns his hand over and teases Sherlock’s palm with his fingertips.

“You looked like you were thinking about sex.”

Sherlock’s throat goes dry. His hand twitches slightly.

“Did I?”

“You most certainly did,” John snickers, his light fingers tickle at the palm above it. The longest one skimming the pulse point on the detective’s wrist, making the hand twitch again. John smiles and leans forward over the table as best he can with his leg propped. “Tell me what you were thinking about.”

Sherlock swallows as John licks his lips. His cock is half hard under the table and his forehead feels damp enough to shine. He must change the subject to something that will solve this problem. He swallows again and looks at John with blown eyes.

“Lestrade is going to call,” he blurts and nearly rolls his eyes at the stupidity of it. John frowns and leans back a little.

“What? What, now?”

“Eventually. He’ll have a case. You won’t be able to come along.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“Well,” John sighs, “I’ll heal before we know it and then I’ll be right back at it.”

“I’ll be careful,”Sherlock adds quickly. He softens his expression when John raises his eyes to Sherlock’s. He looks so sincere. Worried and yet, not. Willing to trust the detective to keep his word, in spite of his poor track record. “I promise.”

“I know you will,” John almost whispers. 

They gaze at one another in silence. Deep blue meeting shining silver. Then, as if he’s lost a staring contest, John glances away for a fraction of a second, and Sherlock finds himself smiling wickedly. Not because John looked away, but because his eyes fell to Sherlock’s lips. When John’s gaze returns, however, Sherlock notices something different. Hesitation? Impending doom? His hand is suddenly being gripped by John’s fingers instead of teased.

“Mycroft wasn’t just checking in. He was here to discuss something specific,” John watches his detective carefully. Sherlock squints his eyes ever so slightly, taking in every detail. “But you knew that.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly before he can stop them. He instinctively tries to rise, but John’s grip on his hand keeps him in his chair. Sherlock’s escape attempt prompts John to grasp the taller man’s other hand too and pin it to the table.

“How long were you listening?” John asks as Sherlock eyes him warily, knowing there is no point in denying it.

“Not long.”

“Right,” the doctor nods once. “I’m going to assume you heard most of it. What he mentioned… When I was in the army…”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sherlock says firmly, holding the doctor’s eyes as he speaks. “You don’t have to tell me anything you aren’t ready to. Mycroft be damned. Since we met we have learned and shared much about ourselves, but neither of us knows it all. We are both entitled to privacy. Changing our relationship doesn’t change that.”

John looks at Sherlock. It’s obvious he means what he’s saying. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t do lip service, but John is also certain Mycroft is right…this time. He releases Sherlock’s hands and curses internally that he can’t stand while he tells this story.

“No, no, he’s right,” he meets Sherlock’s gaze. “You are involved with me sexually. It’s only fair that you know more about my history.”

Sherlock leans forward unconsciously, even as John leans back in his seat and bites his lower lip.  _ He’s nervous. He’s concerned about telling me. _

“John, I know you are clean and that you have been with other men. Although, I am fairly convinced none was penetrative,” he tries to ease his flatmate’s mind, but is not at all convinced that it’s working because John’s eyes have widened and his expression is one of extreme discomfort. Sherlock decides not to expand upon his last statement and get to the point. “I know I am not like those men. I am not an experiment to you. Mycroft is a fool to ever think so.”

“No, you are definitely not an experiment,” Johnseems to relax a bit, “and I’m glad to hear you say it. But there’s something else. Something I’ve never mentioned. I was fresh out of med school when I enlisted. Just a kid, and I met someone shortly after I was first stationed. She’d been there for a year already. We were so alike, had so much in common. It was like we were separated at birth. Oh, we had other friends, but the two of us were always in the mix somewhere.”

John pauses and swallows, staring at his hands. Sherlock sighs in empathy. Recounting this part of his life is obviously very difficult for John. This must be the marriage Mycroft mentioned so carelessly during their conversation. Sherlock wonders if John’s wife was killed in combat and can’t help but want to touch him, to let him know that Sherlock is with him in this. He moves his leg until it gently bumps into John’s good leg. He lifts his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

“You were very special to one another. It’s important to have someone like that in such a dangerous situation.”

“But it went so much further than that. When we were stationed in Afghanistan together, I asked her to marry me. We knew the wedding wouldn’t happen for a while unless we went to the troop chaplain, so that’s what we did. It was fast and stupid, but we were so in love. We didn’t want to wait another minute. Once we were married, we were allowed to room together alone. We enjoyed each other and stayed alive. And then a lot happened very quickly,” John’s eyes go a bit blank as he speaks, seeing things in his mind’s eye. “Promotions, transfers, making friends, losing friends.” 

“And then my unit went missing,” his eyes focus again and he looks at Sherlock. “We were out on assignment to recover and assist a unit that was ambushed while on a reconnaissance mission. The shooting wasn’t over when we got there and all communications were down before it was over. By the time those of us who survived got back to base, the relative stability of that area was shattered. Everyone was packing up and moving out. Jen’s unit was one of the first to go. I wasn’t hurt, so I patched up the ones who needed it with what we still had at the base and eventually moved out.”

John stops again and runs his hands through his hair. Sherlock watches him quietly. John’s restless hands and the twitches of his good leg, all but pressed against the detective’s leg, are enough to tell Sherlock that John would rather be pacing than forced to sit. Sherlock reaches his right hand across and rests it on the table. His flatmate notices immediately and bridges the gap, clasping Sherlock’s hand. A tiny smile graces John’s lips and his expression warms a bit. Sherlock smiles back and looks at him with soft eyes, content to remind John of all he has now even as he recounts what he has lost. Such sadness on his beautiful face can simply not happen.

“When I caught up to her,” John sighs, “it was with a soldier’s face in her crotch.”

Sherlock gasps. He’d expected something terrible had happened, like her death, but certainly not infidelity. Such a thought had never entered his mind. How could anyone bear to hurt John Watson, to so blatantly fail his trust? John shrugged and looked away as if in shame.

“I knew him. He was in our group of friends, but she knew him better than I did. It had been going on forever, since the beginning. She told me everyone did it, that they were fuck buddies and not to be so naive.”

“But you were married,” Sherlock says astounded and then cringes at his own bluntness. He glances at their hands and then back at John. “DID everyone do that?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” John answers, a short and bitter laugh escaping his lips “I did too. Although more selectively than most, but I stopped when I fell for Jen. She didn’t. She didn’t stop with anyone and didn’t see the need. She didn’t really love me.” John shakes his head and Sherlock squeezes his hand. “We split up. I told her I wanted a divorce. And then a couple of weeks later, everything was blown to hell and they were both killed.” he pulls his hand away. “That was the first time I came within a hair’s breadth. Six years before I met you.”

“And the other was right before you met me,” he reasons. The doctor nods. “I believe there have been a few close calls since our association as well. Clearly, you should choose your friends more carefully.”

John can’t stop his bark of laughter. Sherlock joins him with a chuckle. He can see some of the tension and sadness drain from John’s body and eyes.

“So…that’s it,” he looks at Sherlock with hesitance, not sure what to expect. “Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” the tall man looks back at him in mild confusion.

“Mycroft seemed to think knowing would change everything. That if I’d been married before, to a woman, my only close relationship, I’d have lied to you all this time. That I don’t really want a relationship with a man.”

“Mycroft overestimates my fragility,” Sherlock interrupts, “and underestimates my intelligence.” 

“Sherlock, if any of it upsets you, I want to know,” John persists.

“It doesn’t. It was years ago. I don’t expect you to have been a monk before knowing me. I’ve always known your past was rife with rather meaningless encounters,” Sherlock explains, taking on the edge of deduction without realizing. John bristles at his candor. “You had a few even after you first moved in. I may have have suspected you had been married, but I certainly imagined you were involved in a serious relationship or two. If anything, knowing this provides assurance that you are truly capable of something bigger. And, no, it doesn’t bother me that your experience with males were all experimental and nothing more. I have seen the way you look at me, listened when you speak to me and about me, loved the way you touch me. This is no experiment.”

Knowing he has already said so much, enough to have overwhelmed the man with his honesty, Sherlock still stands and goes to John’s side. Looking down at the smaller man, he swallows back his fear. He can’t stop now that he’s this close to the truth and hopes it isn’t all too much for John to process at once. 

“What bothers me is the constant need to convince myself that our relationship is worth all the pain you have suffered,” he admits. “And to reassure myself that you will never hate me for all of this.”

John looks up at his detective with shocked, but intense eyes. Sherlock’s face is open and vulnerable. John can tell he’s held nothing back and he loves him for it. God, how he loves him. Never in his wildest dreams did he think this madman would ever let John see him so unguarded. 

He reaches for the taller man’s hips and pulls him close, burying his face in Sherlock’s belly and snuffling a bit. As his flatmate’s scent surrounds him, John feels Sherlock’s hands in his hair. His fingertips send waves of electricity through John’s body. Pulling back to look at Sherlock, John licks his lips while searching for words.

“I have never been more serious about anyone or more devoted in my life. You said forever is what you’re asking for,” his wide eyes capturing Sherlock’s with their unabashed honesty. “It’s what I want too.”

Sherlock tugs John’s head back to his belly and holds him tightly. He feels warm arms wrapping around his body. Both men are silent, drinking in the emotional charge in the air all around.

When the detective opens his eyes again, he looks down at the top of John’s head in wonder. Can it be true, what he says? He really wants to be Sherlock’s? Forever? He allows his fingers to ruffle John’s soft, blonde hair. There had been no trace of deception, no dishonesty. Sherlock continues to play with the small man’s hair as his mind works through everything that has been said. Not just today or yesterday, but ever since he kissed John on New Year’s Eve.

John’s head slowly tilts up and their eyes meet. With a smile on his lips, Sherlock nods. Understanding immediately, John gives him a slow grin and nudges his flat belly with his nose. Sherlock pulls him close once more and giggles. John follows suit until they find themselves embracing one another in a fit of giggles. As they begin to settle, Sherlock recalls a question he had wanted to ask almost as soon as he walked in the room.

“John?”

“Yeah?” John wipes at one of his eyes.

“How did you know I was here eavesdropping?”

“I smelled the food,” John laughs. He looks up to see Sherlock’s eyes wide with surprise and gives him a seductive-looking smirk. “I live with the world’s only consulting detective. Can’t do that without picking up some of the tricks.”

A slow grin stretches across Sherlock’s face as he looks down at the doctor and answers with a playful sparkle in his eye, and in his best John Watson voice.   

“That. Was amazing.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” John giggles. They both descend into giggles again, culminating in Sherlock sinking to his knees next to John. The two men continue to laugh, foreheads resting against one another.

***

John sits on the edge of Sherlock’s bed and props his crutches against the wall. His whole body tingles. This is the first night he and Sherlock will share a bed in THEIR room. All of his things are in this room  **with** Sherlock’s possessions. It is now  **their** room. For real.

He sighs nervously, looking around with the hint of a smile on his face. He looks at himself in the mirror that happens to hang on the wall in front of him. He’s wearing his usual pajamas - white tee and boxer shorts. Nothing exciting, but he doesn’t really have anything else. Pajamas have never been all that important to him. His only consolation is that both items are clean and relatively new.

He hears a muffled flush from the loo. Sherlock will be ready for bed soon. John’s nervous energy increases tenfold. He lifts his cast leg, his hands on either side of his thigh for support, and swings it onto the bed. He brings the other up normally and settles under the covers on his back.

Shit. He didn’t think to ask Sherlock which side he likes to sleep on. John glances from side to side, uncertain of what to do. Well, he’s here now and, given that the other side of the bed is much closer to a wall, he isn’t sure he could maneuver himself onto it anyway.

John looks at the ceiling, hands resting on his firm belly. This is ridiculous. Why is he so nervous? He’s shared a bedroom before without being this nervous about it. In fact, John can’t remember  **ever** being this nervous or excited about the prospect of spending the night with someone, of sharing a room and a bed. He checked over his pajamas for Christ sake. What was wrong with him? Had he really never cared this much for another person before?

John hears a quiet sound and looks quickly at the bedroom door to see Sherlock standing in its frame. He is gorgeous. He’s wearing his favorite dressing gown with a pair of silk pajama pants visible beneath its hem. The navy blue of the robe makes his curls look even darker and his eyes more silver. The detective waits for a moment, meeting John’s eyes.

Unable to take his eyes off the bloody underwear model who just walked in the room, John mumbles the answer to his own question without realizing it.

“No. I haven’t.”

“What?”

Shaking his head a little, John snaps out of his trance to see Sherlock looking anxious and confused. He takes a step back, turning toward the door just enough that John wishes he could leap up and take him in his arms.

“Maybe this isn’t…It’s too fast. I can sleep on the couch…”

“ **No** ,” John pushes himself up on his elbows. “No, it’s fine.That was, had nothing to do with this.”

He gives Sherlock a smile and pats the mattress next to him. Sherlock smiles back and walks to the end of the bed. He unties his dressing gown and lets it slip off his shoulders to the floor. John stares at his naked torso. The tip of his tongue darts out to lick across his upper lip while his eyes drift from pert nipples to muscled abdomen to wisps of dark hair that begin somewhere under Sherlock’s naval and trail down under his waistband. John’s eyes snap back to the detective’s face when he realizes the man is talking.

“Is this okay? I can put on a shirt if you like.” He is looking at John with an open and innocent expression. An errant curl hanging over his forehead, nearly in his eye. John’s lips curl into a mischievous grin that Sherlock can only describe as cute.

“No. No, it’s fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock crawls onto the bed and lays on his side next to John. Much to John’s chagrin, Sherlock notices his anxious expression and apparent discomfort almost immediately. He puts a hand on John’s chest and speaks quietly. “What’s wrong?”

John meets his eyes, his mouth open slightly. He licks his lips again. He could tell Sherlock that his leg hurts and he doesn’t want to disappoint him, or a number of other things. He swallows and eyes his detective, not wanting to tell Sherlock what he’s really nervous about.

John is hard.

It started with a twitch when Sherlock entered the room. Its interest climbed as he approached the bed and quickly worked its way to half hard when the dressing gown hit the floor. Everything from then on has led John to the current situation and Sherlock’s hand splaying across his chest, a long finger resting on one of John’s hard nipples is not helping.

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” he stumbles over the words.

“You don’t look fine,” Sherlock frowns.

“I’m fine. Really,” he smiles and forces his muscles to ease. Raising a hand to brush that curl off Sherlock’s forehead, he relaxes a little more. “I do wish I could lay on my side and face you though. The fact that I can’t is kind of disappointing, if I’m honest.”

Sherlock’s silver eyes sparkle. His hand slides up to John’s neck, fingertips tickling the sensitive skin. He leans in and presses his mouth against John’s lightly. His lips move slowly and gently. John may lose his mind for Sherlock’s delicacy.

He’s beginning to ache.

John feels a light flick against his lips. Then another and another until Sherlock’s clever tongue works John’s lips open. The detective dives in. His hand is on John’s cheek now. His body presses against the smaller man’s side with his other hand trapped between. John snakes his arm around Sherlock and pulls him even closer, the fingers of his other hand on one of those sharp cheekbones. Their enthusiasm deepens the kiss, the intensity rising. It’s not long before John becomes aware that Sherlock’s hand has drifted down and is now dangerously close to the head of John’s erection. His own hand jets under the covers to stop Sherlock at the waistband of his boxers

“Sherlock, no!”

He pulls his head back and looks at John with startled eyes. He would pull his hand away, except for the fact that John still holds it tightly.

“What is it?! Did I hurt you?” he asks in a voice that is a little too loud and tense not to betray the fear that creeps up his spine. John looks into this precious man’s eyes and can’t help a quiet laugh when he answers.

“No, you haven’t hurt me. I just… I’m very…aroused,” he smiles softly at Sherlock’s cocked brow and continues before his detective can speak. “I don’t want to scare you off or pressure you. I can count our past sexual exploits on one hand and it’s our first night at home. We don’t have to do anything.”

“Oh, John,” Sherlock looks at him fondly. “I want to. I want you so much. Always. And I think you’ll notice that I am also quite aroused.”

John’s mouth opens slowly to respond and he suddenly notices Sherlock against his leg. The corner of his mouth turns up and he wonders how he had missed it before. His fingers trace along Sherlock’s long neck beneath his chin. He licks his lips.

“So you are.”

His flatmate flashes a mischievous smile, hooks his thumb in John’s waistband, and starts to pull them down. However, he stops and looks at John with unabashed amusement. Taken by surprise, John frowns and glances down at himself, then back up to meet those silver eyes, so full of mirth.

“Are you wearing pants under your boxers?” Sherlock cackles. “Seems a bit excessive, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t…” he begins quickly, searching for the words. “I was concerned about this exact situation and it all would’ve been incredibly obvious without pants.”

“Oh!” Sherlock spouts between giggles. “IT certainly would have, Doctor John ‘Well-hung’ Watson.”

“Sherlock,” John starts in a stern tone, but his flatmate’s fingers fly to his lips and prevent him from saying any more while Sherlock gives him a considered expression.

“You needn’t have worried,” he whispers and then slips his hand into John’s pants. John acts on instinct and tries to pull his body away, startled by the unexpected touch. However, with one arm still around Sherlock and one leg in a cast, John doesn’t get more than an inch.

“God, Sherlock!” is all he can manage before the detective’s mouth is on his again. His tongue exploring willfully and his hand applying long strokes to John’s length. John’s fingers tangle in Sherlock’s dark curls and pull him closer as he kisses him hard. The fingers tilt his head up on instinct as John mouths and bites his way to his lover’s long, pale neck. John mumbles against it in between licks and sucks with a smile on his lips.

“You really should…get out in…the sun more.”

“Nope,” he pops the P. “Too much to do in here. Can’t do this out there.”

“‘Spose that’s true,” John mumbles. Sherlock suddenly releases John’s cock and in favor of fondling his bollocks. “Ah, god…Fuck!”

The detective’s hand stills and his eyes open to study the man by his side. John is squirming almost wildly. Coupled with his exclamations, Sherlock cannot be sure if pleasure motivates him to move, or pain. He watches intently as John turns to him with blown pupils.

“God, don’t stop.” His words come out as more of a plea than John would’ve liked, but he dismisses embarrassment and meets Sherlock’s eyes. Their color is but a sliver of silver delicately lining the massive black dots in the centers, intense with desire. He can’t help but glance at Sherlock’s mouth when his tongue slowly snakes out from between his lips and licks at John’s slowly before he speaks.

“John, I…I want you inside me,” Sherlock’s voice is like an oath, soft and quiet and whispered into the world for only John to hear. When John’s eyes drift back up to meet his, they are wider than Sherlock has ever seen them. He swallows hard and lets out a long breath. “Are you okay with that?”

John licks his own lips and nods in disbelief.  _ Jesus, is this really happening? _

“God, yes,” he answers out loud just to make sure he is not misunderstood. He swoops in close and presses an intense kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. When they separate again, breathless and panting, John tangles fingers in soft curls and swallows. “Do you have some lube?”

Sherlock gives him a sultry smirk and then stretches his body to reach the drawer in the bedside table. Once it’s in his grasp, he returns to John’s arms and drops the tube on the pillow near John’s head. Smirking again, he reaches beneath the sheets to divest his body of its silk pajama pants. Then he silently helps with John’s pants and boxers.

Once they are both nude, Sherlock straddles John’s good leg and carefully slides his own knee in between it and the cast. He watches John closely with inquisitive eyes to make sure he causes no discomfort. When he stops moving, they pause for a moment until John’s lips curve and he nods. Sherlock smiles back and leans forward to reach for the tube, pausing with one hand pressed down next to John’s ear to touch his fiery lips to John’s. The shorter man’s body arches upward, touching his sweating chest to pale, hot skin.

Sherlock pulls away after a moment and sits back, resting his bum on John’s knee. His own cock bouncing a little at the movement, already standing to attention. He flips open the cap and makes to squeeze the slick lubricant onto his hand.

“No,” John pushes up on an elbow and places his other hand on Sherlock’s to stop him. The look of confusion on that beautiful face has John smiling. “Let me.”

Sherlock is lost for words as he looks down at John with dark eyes. John takes the tube from his hand and lays back again, squirting a clear blob onto his own fingers. John rubs them together and drops the tube as he watches Sherlock rise from his perch on John’s knee. Once the detective is resting on his own knees, John reaches between his spread thighs. He doesn’t break eye contact once as he inches passed bollocks, brushing them lightly along the way. The tall man gasps and his eyes close tightly in pleasure. John watches Sherlock’s face while he swirls a finger around his hole. He wants to see it all - every smile, every gasp, every time his mouth falls open in sheer ecstasy. John wants to see Sherlock completely taken apart under his hands.

Swirling his finger into smaller circles, he closes in and slowly presses his fingertip in up to the first knuckle. Sherlock’s body shudders, his back bending forward until he is hunched with his hands on John’s broad shoulders. John stops immediately, but leaves his finger in place. Concern shows on his face when Sherlock opens his eyes.

“Are you okay? Have I hurt you?”

“Not a bit.”

The downright lustful expression in the detective’s eyes prompts John to continue. In a few minutes, another finger goes in and Sherlock bites his lip. John takes his time with two digits. It’s been a long time, but he remembers enough of the basics to keep from doing anything stupid. Sherlock moans when the next finger joins in. John wants to do more. He reaches up and lightly pinches one of the pinkened nipples on the body before him. Sherlock’s hands are in his hair at once, a gentle sigh on his lips. John’s hands work in tandem now, and Sherlock is falling apart piece by bloody gorgeous piece. John’s lips curling into a sly smile as he gives the pearled nub a little squeeze at the exact moment his middle finger brushes that sweet and incredibly sensitive spot in Sherlock’s body. The surprised and completely undone man cries out loudly and grabs John’s arm tightly to stop him. The doctor stares in apprehension.

“Sherlock…”

“Oh god, John. Don’t stop. I can’t…I want…” He meets the nervous stare with eyes that are all pupil. His hands are back on John’s shoulders, grasping hard enough to leave bruises. “Now. I want you now.”

Before John can even think of replying, the hands are gone from his shoulders in a flurry of movement. Suddenly lubed fingers are on his cock, slicking it up for what is to come. Sherlock lines them up expertly and sinks down just enough for the head of John’s thick penis to disappear into his body. They both moan loudly, their voices mixing together in a song of pure pleasure. Sherlock’s hands find John’s wrists and bring them up to pin to the pillow on either side of his blonde head. Sherlock breathes deeply and sinks slowly, pausing now and then to let himself adjust until he is fully seated on John.

John eyes lock onto his detective, who inhales deeply and begins to rock his body. The pace is slow at first, John matching every push with his own upward thrust, but it increases quickly. Sherlock’s searing eyes are glued to John’s as they find perfect rhythm and pound into each other. Hot, tight pleasure pools in John’s belly and he can think of nothing but the man astride his body. After only a few minutes, the orgasm surprises him and hits him hard. If he hadn’t already been lying down, he would have surely collapsed in a heap. He screams his lover’s name and thrusts hard one last time, filling Sherlock deep and pushing him over the edge. Sherlock grinds down on John as ribbons of fluid spurt onto John’s chest and belly.

They stay this way for what seems like forever, breathing hard and whispering oaths, until Sherlock’s arms give way and he falls atop John. The smaller man chuckles breathlessly and wraps his arms around that narrow, angular body, burying his nose in its shoulder and ignoring the ache in his leg. Sherlock smells of sweat and sex and that ever-present sweet musk that is all his own. John kisses his pale skin and sighs.

“That. Was amazing.”

“It was my first time.”

John’s head jerks. Sherlock raises his own so he can see John’s face properly. What he finds is a face full of confusion and alarm. His own eyes widen in concern as John stammers.

“You said…That can’t have been. I should’ve…”

Sherlock lips slide into a grin and he captures John’s mouth with a deep and passionate kiss. When he pulls away, his face is full of love, a direct contrast to John’s bemused expression.

“What I mean is that what we have together, our first time together makes everything in my past irrelevant. Nothing could ever match this or even compare. This is my first time. The first and only time that matters.” Sherlock can’t stop the giggle that slips passed his lips while John stares open mouthed and utterly speechless. “John Watson, I love you with all I have, everything that’s in me. I never hoped or imagined finding someone like you.”

John stares for what would normally be a little too long, but Sherlock takes no notice. He simply watches as John’s brain comes back online. Soon the doctor mirrors his bright smile.

“I love you, Sherlock. I’ll never find the words to say it so it means enough. I am truly the luckiest bastard to walk this earth.”

Sherlock kisses him again and then gives him a cheeky grin, tracing a finger along his chin.

“You really are, you know.”

“Ha!” John laughs. “And so humble too! What happened to ‘I’m difficult and annoying’?”

“I have never made any secret of that,” the man shrugs playfully. “Flatmates should know the worst of one another.”

“And lovers?” John asks with the biggest smile Sherlock has ever seen. He pauses to look at him with a sparkle in his eye for a full minute.

“I never thought I’d be able to call you that. Even though I’ve wanted you since the first case.”

John’s cheeks flush and his eyes shift away. When he meets Sherlock’s again, they are both gazing affectionately. For a long time, not a word is spoken. The two men simply study the other’s face - light in the eyes, curve of the mouth, small laugh lines, quirk of the brow. Each memorizing every detail, knowing he will never forget this moment. When, at last, Sherlock tips his chin down and kisses John gently, and then starts to turn his head to lay on John’s chest for a good cuddle, he is startled when John claps his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and stops him quickly.

“Better not do that unless you wanna have come all over your face.”

Sherlock grins.

“You are so crass, John Watson. Have I mentioned that?”

John watches with a wide smile as the detective rises and walks out of the bedroom, glorious ass swaying from side to side all the way. Sherlock returns a moment later with a wet flannel, cleaning his own chest and belly as he nears.

“It may have come up once or twice,” John says coyly as Sherlock climbs onto the bed and straddles John again. He wears a critical expression as he cleans John’s body, but doesn’t bother to hide the smile in his eyes. “Something about my dirty mouth, was it?”

“I can’t believe you used to kiss your mother with that mouth.”

“Where do you think I got it?”

The detective laughs and tosses the flannel to the floor. John immediately pulls him down to lay flat on his body. He smiles up at his flatmate and runs fingers through his silky curls. Sherlock lowers his head and presses a wet kiss to John’s lips. He pauses over John for a moment, his breath warming John’s face. Then he slides off of the compact body beneath his own, immediately snuggling up next to it and wrapping an arm over it tightly, a leg folded over the good leg. 

“Now why the fuck did you do that?” John mock frowns. ”I was just getting comfortable.”

“You’re so much smaller than I am, John,” Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t want to crush that fantastic body of yours.”

“You little shit!” John grabs Sherlock’s arms and means to roll them both over to pin the taller man beneath him, but his immobile leg prevents it and he curses in frustration. “Damn my leg!”

Sherlock cups a cheek with his hand and drags John’s face around to his own. He looks at John with soft and sympathetic eyes.

“We’ll find a work-around, John,” he reassures and then gives him a sassy smile. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I can solve anything.”

John’s lips curl upward and twitch as he tries to suppress a burst laughter. A slow grin spreads across Sherlock’s face as he watches the effort. A single giggle escapes John’s throat and soon both men are laughing outright. When it finally begins to die down, John sighs and looks at his lover.

“God, I’m exhausted.” His expression changes into a serious one so suddenly that a tiny inkling of fear creeps into Sherlock’s mind. He holds his breath when John begins to speak quietly, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that John does not say it was all a mistake. “Sleep with me, Sherlock. Tonight. All night. In our room for the first time.”

The detective smiles and sighs in relief. He pulls his doctor close and whispers into his ear.

“I’d love to.”

They snuggle in against one another and are both asleep as soon as their eyes close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kudos and comments. All your encouragement means the world to me and truly motivates me to carry on. I love this story, which is why it came out so incredibly long. I just couldn't stop working with these characters. I do hope you will all stick with me to the bitter end and that you all love it, and the boys as much as I do. You all have my undying love and respect. ("Bitter end"? What does that mean, I wonder? Ahhh!)
> 
> I promise you won't have to wait as long for the next chapters. Love you all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bliss at 221B, along with a little row.  
> John talks about his sexuality and Sherlock gives him a sponge bath.  
> Sherlock has an epiphany.

In the morning, John awakes to an empty flat and a note from his flatmate that promises help with a bath upon his return. It includes apologies for John’s waking alone and vaguely references a case with Greg, but John doesn’t pay much attention once his eyes catch sight of something. As he stares and his cheeks start to warm with anger and embarrassment, he wonders how the hell he didn’t see it as soon as he got on his crutches?

***

Two hours later finds John sitting at the dining table with tea and a book, though he hasn’t done much reading. John Watson is pissed. Sherlock had better have a damn good explanation when he walks into the flat and...speak of the devil. John listens as the door to the flat opens and latches closed, hears the detective hang up his Belstaff and scarf. He stares expectantly at the doorway to the hall, inserting his bookmark in between the pages he was reading and laying it flat on the table. He picks up his mug and sips just as Sherlock appears in the doorway.

“Ah, you’re up,” the detective nearly skips into the room. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here your first morning at home. Have you had any trouble?”

“Nope,” John raises his irritated eyebrows to punctuate his response. He can tell Sherlock sees it immediately. He tilts his head and cocks a brow back at the doctor.

“John, you are vexed. Should I not have gone?”

“No, no, I don’t mind that you left. I appreciate the note, by the way.”

“Then why are you angry? We have eggs and bread for toast, and that marmalade you like so much. I made sure of that,” he inquires and casually walks toward John with his palms resting on his hips. “You know you have quite a disturbing marmalade problem.”

“Don’t change the subject, Sherlock.”

“There is no subject. How can I be changing it when there isn’t one?”

“There IS one.”

“Is there? You haven’t mentioned one. Ah, of course! The source of your vexation,” he draws his palms together beneath his chin and studies John with sparkling eyes. “You said it’s not the marmalade.” John huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. A cheeky smile emerges on Sherlock’s face, even as John clenches his teeth. “Were you hoping for a repeat performance of last night?”

“Yes. No. That’s not it!” John uses his functional leg to push his chair back at a slant so his flatmate come lover is perfectly able to see him from head to toe. He gestures to the cast currently rendering his other leg immobile “What the bloody hell is this?”

Sherlock’s eyes fall to the words written on the cast in permanent black marker in his own script. He blinks in mild disbelief and meets John’s eyes. His expression somewhere between disappointment and a look he’d give Anderson at a crime scene.

“ **That** is what’s bothering you?”

“‘I love Sherlock’?!”

“You do.”

John frowns mightily in that way that Sherlock finds absolutely adorable, his whole forehead wrinkling with the short one bridging his eyebrows over his nose, but he resists the urge to give John an endearing smile. He learned the hard way that it, while justified, is unacceptable.

“It isn’t a lie. And everyone knows anyway.”

“Everyone does not know.”

”Well, all the important people do,” Sherlock replies innocently. John’s claps a hand to his forehead and closes his eyes in exasperation.

“Yes, all right, but I didn’t want to announce it to everyone I pass on the street or the tube or a case!” he pauses for a moment to meet his flatmate’s eyes. “And all the important people do not know. Greg doesn’t know. Or Molly.”

“Trust me, John, they know,” the detective smirks.

“SHERLOCK!”

He stops snickering and looks at John’s incredulous face. Ducking his head down and looking up again through his long lashes timidly, Sherlock lets his shoulders drop a bit from their usual confident posture. A subtle admission that he has overstepped his boundaries. He shuffles his feet and shrugs. 

“Tell them Sherlock is a girl’s name if it bothers you that much.”

“Tell them…” John starts repeating and then exhales quickly in anger and frustration. “First of all, it is  **not** a girl’s name. Secondly, I don’t care if they know my significant other is a man.”

“Because you’re not gay.”

“No, I’m not gay,” John answers quickly and defensively. Sherlock gives him a pointed look. John’s mind catches up to his mouth and he sighs. He is no longer angry. Maybe he never really was. Definitely frustrated. At this moment, he just really wants Sherlock to understand why they are having this conversation, especially now that the great git will walk away thinking John is going to eventually wonder why they are even together when he continually denies being gay.

**“** Sherlock, listen, I don’t honestly know which label fits me anymore. Maybe none of them do. I want to be with you because of who you are and what you mean. I don’t care if you’re male or female or whatever. I just wasn’t planning on announcing it to every passer by.”

Sherlock’s whole posture suddenly changes and his face is filled with a new understanding. He gives the smaller man a very serious look.

“I’m sorry, John,” he says softly. “I did not think through all of the ramifications as thoroughly as I should have.”

“It’s fine. What’s done is done,” John shakes his head and sighs. “I just wish you would check with me sometimes before you go off and do something like this. Something that affects both of us.”  

John watches as a smile breaks on Sherlock’s face and he begins hopping around with excited energy. His voice is somewhere between a whine and childlike enthusiasm.

“I really am sorry, John, but I woke up and you were still sleeping and I watched you for a while. You were so adorable - “

“Adorable?” John interrupts, speaking quietly over him. Sherlock ignores him and carries on.

“ - making little noises and licking your lips, even when you were asleep. I wanted to tease you, so I grabbed a sharpie and wrote the message.” 

John huffs, looking a bit stern, despite wanting to grin from ear to ear at his flatmate’s display. He knows he should find it infuriating, Sherlock can have such a singular focus at times with no regard for the consequences, but the way he’s dancing around at the moment is too precious to hold anything against him.

“My plan was to wake you up, tease you, tickle you, and then shag you into the mattress. But then Lestrade rang with a case and…” he stops moving about so quickly and walks back to stand by the table next to John. “I’m sorry. The morning has not really gone the way I intended.”

By the time Sherlock has finished, John’s mind is most definitely elsewhere, focused on the words the detective glazed over earlier. He stares when Sherlock places his hands on the opposite side of the table and leans forward for a better view of his doctor, whose jaw has dropped open. John eyes are wide AND dilated.

“Sh…shag me into the mattress?” he stutters. Sherlock smiles slyly and leans in further, cocking a brow and curling his lips.

“I thought that might be your biggest takeaway.”

John continues to stare, wide-eyed and breathless. His tongue darts out to lick his lips as he clears his throat and attempts to look more dignified.

“Really, Sherlock,” he speaks in a business-like tone, ”how do you even know I’m ticklish?”

“We’ve lived together for years, John,” his flatmate smiles coyly. “How could I  **not** know?”

“I don’t know that you’re ticklish.”

“Don’t you?” Sherlock’s voice is like silk. His whole body radiates sex and John shifts uncomfortably. “After all those times you nursed my wounds? Oh, come now.”

His eyes narrow and the sly smile grows wider as he stands straight again and lifts his hands from the table. He begins to step around it and over to John’s chair. John lets out a breath from pursed lips, half hard and desperate to change the subject or do whatever he needs to do to change the look on his detective’s face.

“So, the case. How was it? A five at least?”

“Oh, much better than that, John. A locked door murder and not even a dull one,” his lithe body slips passed John, long fingers drifting over his arm and up to his shoulder. “I’ll tell you all about it while I give you a sponge bath.”

Sherlock disappears into the hall just as his words sink in. John’s eyes go even wider as sheer panic descends upon him. He braces his hands on the armrests of his chair and tries to turn his body toward the door. 

“You what? What?!”

“What did you think I meant by a bath when I return from the case?” Sherlock’s voice finds John’s ears from where he stands in the loo to ready the tub. Trying to let it sink in, John goes back to facing forward again and leans back in his chair. Sherlock can’t be serious. He can’t actually intend to give John a sponge bath with his elegant hands, talking with his plush lips. John’s ears perk up when he hears the taps come on. He swallows hard and stares straight ahead.

“Holy shit.”

John’s army days were exemplified by remaining steadfast in the eyes of danger, and he has done the same in deadly situations with Sherlock Holmes many a time, but right now John Watson is petrified. 

He runs a hand through his hair and wipes away a bead of sweat slowly streaking down from his temple while he tries to reason through it and calm his own thoughts. He should not be so affected by this idea of Sherlock’s. He and his flatmate have shared a handful of sexual experiences now, all of which were amazing. Why should a little sponge bath make him nervous? He had his dick in Sherlock’s ass the night before, after all. What’s a little sponge bath? Besides an extremely intimate experience when shared by two lovers. No problem, really.

John blinks when he hears the taps turn off and footsteps approaching. More time must have passed than he expected. Swallowing down his nerves, he clutches at the armrests again and twists to look toward the doorway just as the detective strides confidently into the room, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. When his eyes meet John’s, he deduces him without even meaning to and stops dead.

“John, you look absolutely terrified.”

“No, no. I just…”

“Surely you were given sponge baths when you were in Afghanistan.”

“Of course I was, but that was just some nurse. Not someone who had his tongue down my throat the night before.”

Sherlock’s hands drop to his sides and he smiles at John as though he’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. John points a warning finger at him and tilts his chin down, his eyes instinctually shifting to Captain Watson’s.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what? Like this?” Sherlock’s expression changes on a dime to something sultry with heated eyes. He begins walking slowly toward John. His fingers unbutton the top button on his shirt. And then the next. John swallows hard yet again and his own fingers tighten on the armrests. A sort of hungry, snarling smile appears on Sherlock’s face as he nears. Every inch of his body absolutely drips with pure sex. “Do you prefer this one?”

John leans back as far into the chair as he can, watching Sherlock’s movements closely. 

“Why are you unbuttoning your shirt?”

“I don’t want to get my clothes wet,” the detective smirks, stepping ever closer. John unconsciously tightens every muscle in his body, his arousal growing exponentially as visions of himself and his flatmate in the bath become more graphic. By the time Sherlock stops in front of the chair, all of his shirt buttons are open from top to bottom where it is still tucked into his trousers. The shirt gapes open revealing the pale, hairless body beneath. John studies him with trepidation and barely contained lust. His tongue darts out to run along his bottom lip.

As if a dam has broken, Sherlock surges forward. He slants toward John so their faces are even. His hands land on the armrests that John’s have just vacated in favor of rising to Sherlock’s chest, believing for a moment that he has tripped. Their lips crash together and tongues immediately thrust into mouths, licking furiously at everything they touch. John’s hands slide down Sherlock’s chest to his muscled abdomen and then double-fist his shirt, yanking it out of the man’s trousers. When his fingers find the naked flesh of Sherlock’s sides, the detective pulls back from the feverish kissing, sucking on John’s lower lip as he goes until it pops out from between his own. John nearly whines at the loss of that warm mouth on his. Sherlock smiles seductively in response.

“Come, Dr. Watson, let’s get you to the bath.”

***

“Sherlock, this is ridiculous,” John complains in a loud voice as Sherlock carries him from the ensuite to their bedroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around each of their waists. “Sherlock, I am perfectly capable. Put me down!”

The tall man shakes his head, his mouth in a thin straight line with just the ends turned up. Beads of water drip from his curls onto his own shoulders and John’s beautiful pectorals. His silver eyes sparkle as he continues to walk and look straight ahead.

“Can’t. Your crutches are still in the loo. John Watson, I’m going to carry you across the threshold into  **our** room.”

“No. This is ridiculous,” John’s cheeks pink up immediately and he begins to struggle. “I’m a grown man, Sherlock!”

Sherlock holds tighter as he kicks aside a chair in his way and keeps walking without even losing pace. John momentarily marvels and then curses the fact that his lover is far stronger than he gives him credit. He continues to struggle, stopping only when the supple, sea-green towel slips from Sherlock’s waist to the floor. The man is completely unfazed and moves straight for the bed, where he gracefully plops his sweet doctor onto the mattress. Before John can sit up or say a word, Sherlock deftly slides his fingers under the towel at John’s waist and pulls it open to reveal his half hard prick. John narrows his eyes and starts in a warning tone.

“Sher…”

The detective all but leaps onto the bed and atop the small man’s body, carefully avoiding the cast and interrupting his words with a crashing of lips. Though the rough kiss is relatively chaste, Sherlock’s fingers quickly wrap around them both and pump away. John’s mouth falls open and his head back with a moan. Sherlock refrains from pushing his tongue in that gorgeous mouth. Instead, he uses it to devour the tanned neck stretched out before him. John writhes and squirms as much as his casted leg will allow.

“Oh, god. Fuck,” John whispers. Sherlock smiles against his neck and presses a gentle bite to his skin, pumping his hand faster. He is so already close and knows John is too. Just as his own orgasm spirals through Sherlock’s body, John cries out his name as his body tenses, then shudders as pleasure rips through him. Sherlock continues moving his hand as ribbons of fluid cover it and their bellies. His pace slows as they both come down. When John starts breathing again, Sherlock releases his grasp and rolls off to John’s side. They lay motionless, breathing heavily. “Fucking hell, Sherlock.”

“Too much?” the detective smiles, heaving a breath. “Now you need another bath.”

“So do you,” John laughs and touches his pale shoulder. “I’ll settle for a flannel or we’ll never get out of the loo.”

Sherlock looks at John wistfully, his breaths coming more normally.

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” he breathes. John meets his gaze with skeptical eyes. “If I was with you.”

They silently search one another’s eyes. Sherlock’s have never looked brighter, happier, or more hopeful. John’s lips part unconsciously as he contemplates his lover’s thoughts. What could give Sherlock such a look of pure joy? Certainly not just him, a ex-army doctor invalided home. John is almost certain that he will never truly know. Unless, of course, he asks the brilliant man in his bed. Biting at his lower lip, he considers what Sherlock’s response will be and his thoughts drift back to a conversation they had only a few hours ago.  _ I promised I would not rush you. Into sex or a relationship or…  _ John’s brows rise. Perhaps he should just ask his detective. Ask him how John can make that gleam in his eyes last forever. 

John’s eyes are the purest blue in all the world. So full of love and trust and contentment. Sherlock can see his own reflection in those eyes and what he sees is just as amazing as John himself. The typically cynical detective sees his own features openly broadcasting every emotion that he also sees on John’s face. It is at this moment, this moment exactly, that Sherlock Holmes truly wants to be John’s husband. He knows he has danced around it before with his words and always stopped himself because he had never actually considered it realistically. His opinion of social conventions is not high and he has never had any desire to subscribe to any of them. But now, now with John, he wants nothing more than to announce to the world that he belongs to this man. That they belong together and to one another. He wants this man for the rest of his life, always by his side, to the end of the earth and damn the consequences.

But how to ask him? Sherlock surely doesn’t want a big production with a ring in a slice of cake or glass of champagne like those ridiculous films Molly has described. Speaking of which, why hasn’t he deleted those conversations? He blinks his eyes and focuses on John once more, who doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest with how long they have just been staring at each other. John. His John. Is it too soon? They have known one another for five years and have been flatmates since day one, but their romance is still relatively new. Would John feel rushed or pressured? Would he worry about making the same mistake he did in his army days?

“Hey, you okay?” John’s voice pulls Sherlock back into the present. “You were far away for a minute there.”

Sherlock blinks again and files away his questions for another time. He smiles at John fondly.

“Perfect. Wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he replies quickly, hoping to set John’s mind at ease without any further questions. John ducks his chin, cheeks flushed. He lets out a little laugh and looks up at Sherlock playfully.

“Don’t think your charm will get you out of washing up after dinner. Ever.” John punctuates his words with a light bounce of his finger on the detective’s nose. Sherlock’s eyes are smiling as his lips round into a perfect “oh” of mock shock. John laughs and presses a kiss to them. “Speaking of which, are you going to fetch a flannel or shall I?”

Sherlock flashes a grin, and pushes himself up and onto his feet. He can’t stop his mind from returning to the subject of matrimony as he saunters into the ensuite. All manner of questions flood his mind as he grabs a flannel and soaks it in the sink. How would he propose to John? How would John want to be proposed to? He considers, cleaning his own body and wrinkling his brow. Should he assume John will say yes and buy a ring first? Will having a ring be too presumptuous or pressure John into saying yes?

“Taking your time, aren’t you?” John’s voice calls from the bed, popping Sherlock’s eyes wide. He rinses out the flannel and jogs back into the bedroom to see John pushed up on his elbows and looking his way. “I don’t want to interrupt your afterglow, but I’m getting sticky over here.”

Sherlock’s lips curve upward at the sight of John’s warm smile and he sits on the bed to clean his lover. When he is finished, he drops the flannel to the floor and lies down next to John. An arm wraps around his back and pulls him close. John nuzzles the side of his head to Sherlock’s face and rests it there gently. In one fluid motion, Sherlock wraps his arms around the smaller man and kisses the soft hair on his head. The warmth of John’s body, the feeling of skin against skin is calming and safe. He sighs and begins to run his fingers along John’s chest, absently tracing the scar and drawing his own patterns too.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Sherlock begins telling John about the morning’s case, which he was too distracted to do during the bath. John listens attentively and asks questions at all the right moments, every time the detective thinks he may have gone on for too long. They stay this way until well into the afternoon before getting up to make a late lunch, and then spend the rest of the day in the flat to themselves. John reads and Sherlock works on an experiment. He rings for takeaway just after seven and, knowing it will take at least thirty minutes to arrive, slides a worn hardcover from the bookcase and pads over to sofa. John looks up quizzically as he holds the book before him.

“Would you read it to me?” he asks in a deep voice. A bit taken aback, John slips the bookmark into his own book and puts it on the side table. He takes the hardcover from Sherlock with his warm hands, one of which touches the detective’s fingers and sends a hot jolt through his body. John immediately reads the book’s cover and his eyes tip up to meet a soft, silver gaze.

“Robinson Crusoe?” he asks with a smile in his voice. 

“It’s a favorite of mine,” the detective replies. John watches as he sits in front of the sofa, leaning on it with his back and his head on John’s good leg. He looks so relaxed and content. John opens the book and licks his lips, his eyes shining brightly as he begins to read.

“I was born in the Year 1632, in the city of New York,  of a good Family, tho' not of that Country…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am constantly blown away by all of you and I want to extend my thanks for all the love and support. All the comments and kudos and bookmarks on both parts always bring a smile to my face and a skip in my step. You all keep me going and make me love writing even more. Thank you from deep in my heart. I love you all.
> 
> ...And stick around for the next chapter. I'm trying to get them out a bit faster after the long dry spell.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes out on a dangerous case that follows him home.   
> The duo snuggle after the danger has passed.  
> Sherlock has a nightmare and keeps the truth of it from John.

A few weeks go by and John’s leg is healing well, but he is not yet at the point where he can walk without crutches. Likewise, he and Sherlock’s relationship flourishes. They spend all their time together when Sherlock is not on a case. John will never forget the evening a startled speechless Greg Lestrade turned up at Baker Street before Sherlock arrived home. The good detective had apparently mentioned John in a context that left little room for speculation and Greg felt the need to both congratulate his friends and express his delighted surprise. The two laughed and talked until Sherlock got home with a carton of milk. Then the three went to a nearby pub to “celebrate properly,” as Greg described it. He also didn’t bother to hide his hysterical laughter when he saw the message on John’s cast. John was not pleased, but he got over it. When John and Sherlock returned home that night, the sex they’d had was spectacular.

John watches Sherlock fondly as he explains everything he has prepared for John to snack on while he is away on a case. He knows full well that John is more than capable of doing whatever he wants in the flat, despite still requiring crutches, but his efforts and concern are too adorable to resist.

“And, of course, there’s marmalade. Is there anything else you might need?” he glances at his own plate. “I did eat most of my dinner.”

John giggles as he finishes chewing a bite. He takes a drink before he replies, smiling at Sherlock’s expectant face.

“Yes, you did. Thank you.” The other man gives him a somewhat smug expression as he drinks from his own water glass. John winds spaghetti around his fork. “There is something I’d like to talk about before you go.”

“Oh? Have I forgotten something? I did mention the marmalade.”

“Yes, you did,” John laughs quietly, wiping his lips with a napkin. “You’d think my mood depended solely on whether or not there’s marmalade in the flat.”

“You have not been on the receiving end of said moods,” Sherlock replies, narrowing his eyes. John bursts out laughing and a playful smile spreads across Sherlock’s face.

“What I was actually referring to,” he meets Sherlock’s eyes, “is maybe me bottoming the next time we…” He trails off. Sherlock’s chin is on the table and his eyes are wide with shock. He quickly recollects himself and settles his features into a completely unreadable expression. John bites his lip. He has never bottomed, in spite of having to be on his back, which makes it seem like the easier option. Or maybe not? Maybe his casted leg would get in the way? Maybe Sherlock’s face is so blank because he has to think about the logistics or maybe he just doesn’t want to top. Whatever it is, John feels he has said something terribly wrong. He clears his throat and looks away. “I mean, it’s just an idea. I just thought… But if you don’t want to…”

“John.”

John shifts his eyes back to Sherlock’s, hoping to god he doesn’t look as embarrassed as he feels. What he sees takes John’s breath away. Sherlock looks positively reverent.

“I would love to. There are so many things I want to do to you,” the corners of his mouth quirk up. “But you  **must** stop telling me things like this immediately before I leave for a case.”

They look at one another very seriously for a moment before John bursts out laughing. Sherlock quickly joins him with deep chuckles that send shivers down John’s spine. He meets those smiling silver eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he runs his fingers down Sherlock’s long arm. The detective shivers at the touch, even through his clothing. “I hope you won’t be too distracted. I guess I just wanted to give you something to look forward to when you get home.”

“You truly want me to be killed, John Watson.”

Shortly thereafter, John sits comfortably on the sofa with his legs propped and a book in his lap. Sherlock enters wearing his Belstaff and scarf, and a concerned look. John stops sipping his tea and lowers the cup, wondering what could be weighing on the detective’s mind. He has left John alone for long cases before without issue.

“Do you need anything else?”

“No, everything you’ve done is more than enough,” John laughs. “I will have absolutely no trouble entertaining myself.”

“Right. Good.”

“Sherlock, what are you not telling me?” John tests the waters. The taller man looks at him blankly. “You’ve gone out on cases before. What’s different this time?”

“Different?”

“Sherlock,” John says with a knowing look. Sherlock continues to give him an expression of mild confusion and indifference. When John doesn’t let up, his flatmate sighs and walks over close. He looks at him with sincere eyes.

“It could be a slightly more dangerous case than I have accepted lately,” he intones, “but it’s fine, John. Nothing to worry about.”

John shifts uneasily on the sofa. Before he can speak, Sherlock bends over him and presses his lips against John’s warm mouth. He moves them languidly and John can barely restrain a soft moan. When he pulls away, John’s dilating eyes open slowly.

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” he sighs. Sherlock’s angular face lingers in front of John. His hot breath blowing over John’s cheeks. The doctor blinks in slow motion, watching a small smile grow on Sherlock’s face and feels long fingers running gently through his hair.

“I promise,” he kisses John’s cheeks in turn. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

***

Hours later John wakes with a start. He obviously fell asleep at some point, still on the couch. His book lies on the floor, his tea gone cold long ago. He stretches and rubs his eyes, looking at his mobile. 2:36am. He gets to his feet and grabs his crutches to head for the kitchen. Trying not to think about Sherlock and the case, he makes some tea and then settles at the dining table with his book.

About a half hour later, the door to the flat opens. John puts his book on the table and sits up in his chair. His whole face brightening at the thought of seeing Sherlock at home, safe and sound.

“The case went well, I…” his voice dies in his throat when Mycroft walks in the door and looks at him smugly.

“My brother asked that I look in on you.”

“Sure he did,” John clips out, bristling. Mycroft raises a brow and comes closer. “Let me guess. You knew Sherlock would be out all night and decided to convince me to leave him again, or are we beyond that now? You came to threaten me so I’ll be sure not to hurt him. Or did your calendar just ping a reminder to be an asshole?”

Mycroft stares at John, eyes narrowed, face grim. John waits a moment for a response, but the elder Holmes remains as a statue. John leans forward and speaks, a bubbling irritation in his voice.

“Are you trying to intimidate me? Because it’s not working.”

Mycroft narrows his eyes further and remains silent. John sighs in anger and lifts his leg from the chair it is propped on. He begins to rise.

“Look, if you’re just going to be a dick…”

“Something is wrong,” he interrupts. “The plan is not working.”

“What?”

Mycroft tilts his head slightly and seems to be listening intently, also giving John ample opportunity to see the earpiece he’s wearing. John grumbles impatiently, supporting himself with his hands on the table. _Since when has Mycroft Holmes worn a fucking earpiece?_ _Sherlock!_ John’s body tenses in seconds, his eyes wide with fear he doesn’t give a shit about hiding from the prick standing in front of him.

“Where’s Sherlock? What’s going on?” he demands. Mycroft opens his mouth to respond, but says nothing. The color drains from his face and he presses a finger to the piece as if it’s suddenly lost volume.

John can barely contain his anger and curses his damn leg. Without the cast, he would be next to Mycroft in a flash of movement, nearly throttling him until he told John what the fuck is going on. Slamming a hand on the table is his only release, but it’s enough to finally get Mycroft’s attention. His eyes shoot left to meet John’s. The small man’s eyes are dark and dangerous.

“Tell. Me. Now.” John watches as the tension in the man’s body eases a fraction. He opens his mouth to speak again, but pauses when the elder Holmes raises a finger and listens intently. His patience wrung through, John nearly starts shouting, but Mycroft interrupts.

“Sherlock is unharmed.“ John sinks into his chair in relief, casting not a thought to what Mycroft thinks. “The Detective Inspector has been shot.”

“Oh, shit,” John sits bolt upright.

“But it is minor,” Mycroft adds. The ring of John’s mobile cuts through the heavy air in  the room and he snatches it up when he sees it is his flatmate.

“Sherlock!” he nearly shouts. “Sherlock, my god! Are you all right?”

“Are you in our flat?” Sherlock’s voice is tense, his words coming rapidly. “Are you at the flat, John? Is Mycroft with you? You must get out of there.”

“What? What are you…”

“Get out now and do not leave Mycroft’s side. I’m on my way.”

John is about to speak again when he feels the unmistakable cold of a gun barrel pressed to the back of his head. His eyes slide to Mycroft, careful not to move a muscle, as he watches the tall man slowly raise his hands. A low voice growls behind John.

“Excellent decision, Mr. Holmes. I’m sure you know of your brother’s close call by now.”

“You know you cannot escape.”

“Oh, but I can.” John feels a hand on his shoulder and the gun barrel pushes to his head harder. “You’re coming with me, Dr. Watson. The Holmes brothers need a lesson.” (to Mycroft) “I guarantee neither of you will interfere with my business again.”

Suddenly John hears the glass window break behind him and the quiet sound of a bullet entering a body at high speed. It’s a sound the common man would never notice, but is clear as day to an ex-army doctor who is a sharpshooter in his own right. The hand on his shoulder slides down his arm as the man behind him falls to the ground, his gun landing next to his body. John and Mycroft both continue to stare at one another, visibly relaxing in tandem.

“Thank you, Anthea,” Mycroft says in a firm tone, his earpiece clearly having a microphone. He steps passed John and goes to the window. “The flat is secure. All threats have been neutralized.”

“Jesus,” John mumbles, taking a moment to breathe. “Thanks. I’m sorry about before.”

“Not to worry, John. Our last few interactions have been less than friendly.”

“All of our interactions have been less than friendly,” he snarks.

“Quite,” Mycroft walks by John again as a group of men enter the room and begin to load the would-be kidnapper into a black bag made of heavy plastic. Mycroft stands ramrod straight and speaks to John sternly. “We will leave as soon as that is taken care of, but a handful of men will remain outside for 24 hours to ensure your safety. Sherlock should arrive shortly after our departure.”

“Uh, thanks. What the hell was all this anyway?”

“I will let my brother provide you with an explanation,” he nods with his small, smug smile. “Good evening, Doctor.”

***

Mycroft’s men make quick work of removing the body and cleaning up after it. John does not have to wait long between their departure and Sherlock’s arrival. He rushes into the flat and finds John still at the dining table. As Sherlock steps closer, John rises from his chair and grabs his crutches. When they meet not far from the table, John drops the crutches and falls against the taller man, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in Sherlock’s chest. The detective returns the embrace and kisses John’s head.

“It’s okay, John,” he whispers. “I’m all right.”

They remain this way for some time before retiring to the bedroom. Each in his own version of pajamas, they climb into bed. The night sky is still dark, but sunrise is fast on its way and both men are exhausted. They lay on their sides on top of the covers, looking bleary-eyed at one another. Sherlock has just concluded a detailed account of the case, and explained how he, Mycroft (plus lackeys), and Lestrade (plus officers), all became involved in apprehending a small faction of international drug dealers. John is smiling and trying not to laugh at Sherlock’s observations on the combined incompetence of Mycroft’s men and Lestrade’s officers.

“Is Greg okay?” he asks at his first opportunity. “Mycroft said he’d been shot.”

“Oh, yes. It was a glancing blow, merely a flesh wound. Nothing to concern yourself with.”

“Good,” John says decisively and then adds somewhat mistily, “I’m glad you’re okay,”

Sherlock shifts closer and puts his hand on John’s hip somewhat possessively. The doctor’s heavy eyes close and he inhales at the touch.

“And I, you. I am sorry to have left you here, helpless to protect yourself.”

“M’not helpless,” John frowns and opens his sleepy eyes. “Can still defend myself.”

“That’s not the picture Mycroft painted,” Sherlock’s voice is a little haughty. John grumbles and shifts closer, his eyes close as he moves and are unlikely to open again.

“Mm…bastard. Would’ve made it hard to get me out of the flat. Break his fucking nose.”

His guilt melting away, Sherlock smiles at John affectionately and memorizes every detail of this moment for John’s wing in his mind palace.

“You are adorable like this,” he whispers against John’s forehead. John’s brow creases beneath his lips and one eye opens a crack.

“Don’t make me break your nose, you git,” his eye slides shut again and he begins to murmur quietly. “You’re beautiful…mmm, curls and lips….”

Without uttering another word, John falls asleep. The rise and fall of his chest is even, his mouth slightly open. Sherlock smiles lovingly and pulls a blanket over their bodies. He stretches and then snuggles up close to his sleeping doctor. Despite being tired, Sherlock watches John sleep for a while. He is truly perfect. The perfect person for Sherlock to share his life with. Not that he ever imagined he would find such a person. He fully expected and planned to be alone forever. Never once thought he could love anyone, much less be loved by that person. But John loves him and he questions it no longer.

Sherlock smiles softly and touches John’s cheek. He moves his head forward to close the gap between their faces and brushes his lips across John’s, breathing in his musky, tea-laced scent. He raises a brow at a faint addition and sniffs again with more intent, his cheek touching the sleeping man’s. Cinnamon? Interesting. He makes a mental note to find the source later. Drawing back, he looks at John and whispers.

“I am going to marry you, John Watson,” he strokes John’s cheek with his thumbs. He does not stir. Sherlock kisses his lover’s parted lips once more. This time, John twitches, licks his lips, and lays a hand on Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock smiles and closes his eyes. Soon they are both asleep.

***

Sherlock wakes with a start. He stares at the ceiling for a moment, trying to get his bearings. Almost subconsciously, his hand reaches for the other side of the bed and John. However, it finds only sheets and blankets. He looks around for the tell-tale crutches and sees nothing. Sitting up in bed, Sherlock rubs his eyes and looks around. Is John in the loo or making tea?

“John? John, are you here?” he calls out, knowing his voice will reach John’s ears. When he hears nothing, the thought that John may have gone to the store strikes him. The stubborn little man does like to go out of his way to exercise his independence, especially now that he will soon be in a walking cast. Sherlock glances at the alarm clock as he turns to hang his legs off the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor. Too early for it to be light outside and, stubborn as he is, Sherlock does not believe John would go out in the dark.

“John?” he calls again. He starts to push himself up and off the bed, but stops and stills at a sound from out in the flat. A short scraping, like…a chair on the kitchen floor. He listens carefully and hears it again, quickly followed by what is unmistakably a mug of tea falling to the floor and splitting into pieces. A warning.

Sherlock lunges forward to get on his feet, but something flashes before his eyes. A wire settles around his throat and pulls him backwards. His back crashes into his attacker, his hands grabbing desperately at the wire, but unable to find purchase.

“That’s right, Sherrrrrrlock. Keep struggling. It’ll make it go faster.” Moriarty pauses to tighten the grip of his gloved hands on the wire and then continues talking in a sing-songy voice. “Thought I was dead, didn’t you? Haha. Not dead.”

Sherlock blinks his eyes wide, his fingers scrabbling at his own throat and the wire, but it does no good. He tries to speak, to say anything. Call out to John, tell him to run, to get away from here as fast as he can, but all he can manage are whispers of incomplete words. Moriarty laughs at his efforts and pulls the wire tighter.

“Is it cutting into your neck? It’s cutting into your neck, isn’t it? Oh, yes,” he taunts and then purrs. “I do like a bit of blood.”

Sherlock’s fingers finally wrap around the wire and pull, but release instinctively almost immediately when the taut wire breaks their skin. Sherlock grunts and grabs the wire again. His vision is fogging. He is dizzy. While his eyes water profusely, his mouth is bone dry and chalky. He struggles to say just one word.

“J…John.”

“What’s that? John? Oh, he’s fine. He’s waiting for me in the kitchen. No worries, Sherrrlock. I’ll take good care of him,” Moriarty gives the wire a good yank backwards with both hands, slicing deeply into Sherlock’s throat. He smiles at the sound of gurgling and releases the wire. Sherlock’s body falls back onto the bed as Moriarty moves out of the way. Sherlock’s hands still rest at his own throat, blood rushing from it and covering his fingers. He can’t move. Only his blurry, far away eyes obey his brain and stare up at Moriarty.

“I’ll give him your love,” the sing-songy voice says as a grotesque grin spreads across those lips. “And then I’ll fuck him so hard, he’ll forget your name and NEVER remember it.”

Sherlock tries to yell. He wants to scream. Moriarty cannot have John. He MUST not! He wills his muscles to move their limbs and keep drawing air. He can hear Moriarty’s footsteps getting farther away. He hears the faint scream of John’s voice. It sounds like his name. Sherlock’s eyes close and he can’t see. Only they aren’t really closed. They are wide open and unseeing. Blank. Empty. Forever.

Sherlock bolts upright in bed, dripping with sweat and shouting. There are hands touching him instantly. One rests on his shoulder, another at his waist. He is breathing heavily, quickly enough to be hyperventilating. Sherlock’s head turns. His terrified eyes see deep blue and a voice breaks through his loud breathing.

“Just breathe. It’s all fine. You're safe. We're safe at home.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and retreats into his mind palace so he can concentrate. He sees John in the hallowed halls, still speaking calming words and looking at him affectionately. Sherlock steps close to him and envelops him with a kiss, pouring all that he is and all that he feels into John. He is safe. They are both safe. And Moriarty is dead. Goddammit, this shouldn't be happening again! He's DEAD!

When Sherlock finally opens his eyes, his breathing has slowed and heart is beating normally. He blinks once, twice and turns to meet the deep blue eyes of his own compact doctor, sitting in the bed next to him and studying him with concern.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is soft and comforting. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock swallows hard and struggles to regain his composure. He can’t tell him. He can’t tell John anything. The words are stuck in his throat and threaten to choke him.

“Yes. Fine,” he finally says.

“Nightmare?”

“Obviously.”

“About?”

“It’s really not worth talking about,” Sherlock says dismissively, his voice finally beginning to sound normal. “It was just the case playing itself out, but you were taken from the flat and found later. It’s okay, really.”

John frowns and then licks his lips. He tugs at his detective and speaks in a warm tone, instead of the irritated one Sherlock expects.

“C’mere.”

He tucks Sherlock into a tight hug and then kisses him sweetly, comfortingly. They tip back together and lie down again. John holds his lover in a close snuggle. Sherlock holds him just as tightly and sighs. Neither of them say a word. John doesn’t believe Sherlock’s explanation for a moment and Sherlock knows it. He closes his eyes and pulls John closer, as close as he can without hurting his leg, trying desperately to delete the dream. He doesn’t want to hear the words Moriarty spoke ever again and he wouldn’t be, if it weren’t for his own damn mind. Sherlock shakes his head in frustration until he feels a warm, steady hand on his cheek. He opens his eyes to see John’s face, full of worry. 

“It’ll be okay, Sherlock. It was just a dream,” John purses his lips. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me?”

Sherlock shakes his head slowly, his eyes darting back and forth between John’s. Even if he wanted to tell John, could bring himself to tell John, he would never be able to say the words out loud. Even with Moriarty dead, he cannot bear John having the knowledge of what Moriarty had planned for him.

“Okay,” John nods, but looks disappointed. “Please just try to relax and get some sleep, yeah? I’ll be right here. We’re in this together. Always.”

Sherlock nods back and tries not to show how angry he is at his own cowardice. Instead of confessing the truth, he placates with words that are no less true, but bring him even more shame.

“Thank you, John. I love you,” he whispers. John smiles hesitantly and lets out a short breath.

“I love you too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Everyone!  
> Thank you again for all of your support. I love you all and you all keep me right. :)
> 
> A couple of logistical notes. I have marked this Part as being 9 chapters. The truth of it is that, as I have been editing, everything I have written from here on in claims to be one huge chapter. Needles to say, that is not the case. I don't what I was thinking while in my creative process or where the chapter divisions went. In any case, I will be splitting them into shorter chapters. I guessed on the number as 9, so it could turn out to be more or less. I'll keep you informed. 
> 
> I also wanted to say that whatever happens in my story, you have to do just what the title says - Persist. It's pretty long. There are good and bad times. Jim is a dick, and John and Sherlock have to put up with a lot of shit. Please stick around for everything. It has a great ending (whether happy or sad) I promise.
> 
> Much love.  
> Jane


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes a suggestion and it doesn't go exactly as planned, but the intrepid duo still get up to a little sumpin', sumpin'.  
> John asks Mycroft a question.  
> Mycroft is an ass.  
> Sherlock gets a call for help.

Two days later and John has not mentioned the dream. Sherlock has had another both nights since. He is positive he kept from waking John the first time, but is not certain about last night. John stirred, but did not respond when Sherlock spoke to him. If he did wake, John has not let on.

He glances at the man on the couch with him. John reclines peacefully with his feet on Sherlock’s lap, reading a book and happens to lick his lips. Sherlock’s glance becomes a stare as he watches all of John’s small movements and mannerisms. Things he does that he probably doesn’t even realize. He’s beautiful. Adorable. Sherlock smiles to himself. Unable to miss the attention, John looks up at the detective. Sherlock’s cheeks pink up when he is caught being so sentimental and John smiles with a quiet laugh.

“Sherlock Holmes, are you deducing me while I’m not looking?”

“Of course,” he shrugs and plays along. “I do it all the time.”

“And what do you see?” he sets his book aside. “What am I thinking?”

Sherlock shifts closer and rests his hand on John’s thigh.

“You want to come in the bedroom with me.” John’s brows shoot up at his audacity. 

“Oh,” he smiles, “and why is that? I’m reading a very good book out here, you know.”

Sherlock leans in close and kisses John’s neck. Then he whispers into it, letting his breath drift over John’s tanned skin.

“You could read just as easily in the bedroom.”

“Mmm. I’m not so sure about that. You look as though you might bother me,” John half scolds as he folds his arms around Sherlock, tangling his fingers in those dark curls. Sherlock thrusts out his full bottom lip in an irresistible pout and says nothing. “Of course, you could read to me. Return the favor. I’ve been reading a lot to you lately.”

“We haven’t finished Robinson Crusoe yet.”

“I know, I know, but it won’t hurt to have two books going at the same time,” John smiles in a way Sherlock can only describe as damn suggestive. “I have the perfect one for that gorgeous voice of yours.”

The detective studies him with curious eyes. John is up to something and it becomes all the more clear when the doctor raises his brows and strokes his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls provocatively.

“I’ll let you carry me into the bedroom,” he offers with a lilt in his voice. Sherlock lets out a long sigh. He cannot refuse this man.

When Sherlock enters the room, John in his arms, he walks straight to the bed and bends forward to deposit his doctor softly on the mattress. However, the sly doctor has other plans. He keeps his arms wrapped around the detective even after he is solidly on the bed and uses his exceptional strength, and the fact that the taller man is off-balance, to drag him down onto the bed. Startled, but still within his wits to keep from falling right on John and his leg, Sherlock twists himself over his flatmate’s body and lands on the other side of the bed with a thud. John, much to Sherlock’s surprise, is suddenly on top of him with a very big grin on his face. Sherlock opens his mouth to object and insist that John get off before he hurts himself, but the words don’t come. 

Everything stops. The two men lie there, simply facing one another, just looking…as if both are trying to memorize this moment and lock it away. The curve of John’s lips, the light in Sherlock’s eyes, the warmth of their skin and the heat of its touch. Everything each of them wants is right here in this room, in their arms. They are connected forever. Like two souls have become one. Two pieces of the same heart, as they say, and no one can break that heart. Or is there...is there one who can? 

John smiles and ghosts a thumb across Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. He leans down and kisses him softly. The detective responds in kind, moving his lips in accordance with John’s. He lets a hand glide over John’s body to his perfect, round ass and pats it. John growls and tilts his head to deepen the kiss. His lips part just enough to nip at Sherlock’s plump lower lip and then he bites firmly, but not enough to hurt. When the man beneath him moans wantonly, John licks into his mouth forcefully and mouths at the detective hungrily. Sherlock inhales quickly and follows John’s lead, folding his arms around the doctor and holding on tight. Their fevered kissing continues and John only breaks away when he has Sherlock’s shirt completely unbuttoned, giving him unfettered access to his pale skin. They both pant hard as he drags his lips down Sherlock’s neck and over his chest. 

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock gasps. John smiles against his hot skin and licks a wide stripe over one of his nipples. His back arches beneath John, pushing him up into the smaller man’s frame until two very distinct bulges meet. Even with layers of clothing in between, the men moan together. John ducks down and licks another stripe up Sherlock’s belly, over his navel, and up his stomach. The detective writhes beneath his touch and desperately clutches to reality, so tempted to let go and ride out every sensation, but knowing the end result will be coming in his own pants and that would just not do. To his good fortune, John takes a deep breath against his skin and begins speaking in a low voice. It’s just enough to give Sherlock something else to focus on so he can maintain his composure. 

“I’m pretty close to a walking cast.”

“Yes?”

“M’leg is a lot better.”

“Get to the point or I’ll flip you over and bite your neck right now.”

“I want to bottom,” John rushes the words out in one breath, “from the top.” 

Sherlock stops. He tips his head up to look at John with wide eyes. His flatmate stares back with a hesitant expression. To say Sherlock is surprised by the suggestion would be a severe understatement. He is well aware that John’s recovery is going well, but never would have imagined him ready for this. He can see his flatmate brimming with excited energy AND lust, want, need. He’s looking into his own soul, all of his own feelings of anticipation and desire written out on John’s face. Sherlock lets out a long sigh and slides his hand up John’s back. He cannot say no. He swallows hard.

“You think you can manage?”

“It’s going well so far,” John smiles. “I’ll be okay.”

Sherlock returns his smile and lifts his head from the bed to kiss John. As their lips touch, their tongues come together once again, licking and teasing. The detective’s big hands roam lightly all over the back of John’s body. John’s fingertips find the smooth skin of Sherlock’s belly and pause at the waistband of his trousers. He dips in under it with his left hand, just to the first knuckles of his fingers. Wanting more, the intrepid doctor shifts slightly as his tongue dives deeper.

Suddenly, a sharp pain shoots through his leg and up into his hip. He can’t stop a short and quiet yelp, and pushes himself up with his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Another sharp pain shoots through his body and he chokes out a pained groan as he clenches his eyes shut. Completely horrified, Sherlock quickly but gently rolls John off his own body and onto his back on the mattress.

“John.”

“Ah, god,” John’s eyes open wide, staring up at the ceiling. “Bad idea. Definitely a bad idea.”

Sherlock jumps up onto his knees next to John, hands hovering over his body, trying to determine his next course of action. His silver eyes run the length of the man’s body and then he touches his shoulder.

“Are you alright? Do you need pain killers? Or tea?”

John bursts out laughing, even as his muscles clench at the pain it causes. He visibly flinches and squints up at his flatmate.

“Tea? God, I love you, Sherlock! Tea. Only you would suggest…” he trails off, dissolving into laughter so hard he can’t speak. Sherlock peers at him, clearly unamused.

“I don’t see what’s so funny. Tea is known to have relaxing and healing properties. All over the world, in fact,” he huffs as John’s laughter continues. “Don’t tell me your study of western medicine has closed your mind to other treatment possibilities. I believe I have already rather successfully demonstrated the value of reflexology.”

John finally begins to settle down at the detective’s haughty words and waves a hand in surrender.

“I suppose other methods do have merit.  **Some** other methods.” With Sherlock’s help, he carefully turns onto his side with only a short wince of pain. Once he is comfortable, he gazes up into Sherlock’s silver eyes. “You’re perfect,” he breathes. He immediately gets a skeptical look from his lover and, placing a hand on the man’s cheeks, he corrects himself. “For me. Perfect for me.”

Sherlock smiles in approval of the qualifier and presses his lips to John’s. One of Sherlock’s hands rests on John’s bicep, holding him close and steady. Smiling against the detective’s lips, the sly little doctor slides his hand from Sherlock’s cheek and slithers down to grasp his perfect backside.

“You have the best bum ever,” he whispers. Sherlock lets out a quick puff of laughter and pulls back to look at him.

“That is a gross exaggeration.”

“No it isn’t. I have the proof right here,” he grins, giving one cheek a firm squeeze.

“And have you examined all buttocks everywhere?”

“Don’t need to,” he shakes his head. “Your ass stands out.”

“You are ridiculous,” Sherlock huffs again and kisses John thoroughly before he can answer. The two snuggle together a few minutes after their lips part until John leans close and whispers.

“Still the best bum ever.”

Sherlock laughs and wraps his fingers around the back of John’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss. More kissing, and a lot of tickling and squirming follow. Sherlock eventually pulls the covers over their bodies and over John’s head to escape tickling. John laughs loudly beneath it, still reaching for him playfully with wiggling fingers.

“You see,” Sherlock cackles, “you know exactly where I’m ticklish.”

John’s face appears from under the covers and he waggles his eyebrows. 

“A technicality,”  gesturing grandly, the covers slipping down his body. Sherlock gives him a smug and very satisfied expression. 

“Ha. I believe that was precisely the point, actually.”

“You think so?”

“I most certainly do.”

John doesn’t answer. Just gives Sherlock a devilish grin and disappears under the blankets. Sherlock’s brow wrinkles in confusion and is about to ask John what he’s doing when he feels a tug on his trousers. Everything becoming immediately clear, his hands find John’s hair and a quiet moan escapes his lips.

“John.”

John pulls the detective’s rapidly hardening cock out of his pants and trousers. First he licks around the head and teases its rim with his lips and tongue. Sherlock breathes faster and strokes his fingers through John’s hair. Firm, wet stripes are licked up and down Sherlock’s long shaft. John smiles to himself and wraps his lips around Sherlock, surrounding him with wet heat. He bobs slowly under the covers.

Sherlock bites his lip and tenses every muscle in his body to keep from thrusting into his lover’s mouth. God, how he wants to. He is torn between wanting more, faster and harder, enough to fuck John’s mouth, and absolutely revelling in the pleasure, the slow burn of the current pace. He nearly cries out when John surprises him by nipping at the head of his penis whenever the mood strikes. Which is often.

After a few moments, John pulls off and nearly giggles at the intensity of the protest from outside the blankets. He growls in response and licks the leaking slit before his lips. More pre-come instantly replaces what is gone, so John licks again luxuriously. Sherlock’s spine arches and he moans loudly.

“Oh, John. Oh, god.”

The doctor takes him deeply and quickly, eliciting a louder moan from his detective. He sucks slowly once again and rolls Sherlock’s balls with his fingers. Pausing for a moment, relishing in how close his lover is to orgasm, he listens to the gasps and counts the tiny jerks shivering through the detective’s body. John slowly pulls up and off. His tongue licks at the pre-come again and then swirls around the head, its rim, its tip, lavishing each and every millimeter with attention.

Sherlock’s brain is close to exploding. John has sucked him off before, but never with this kind of slow, maddening care. His hips twitch and he tenses more, not wanting to pound himself down John’s throat. His doctor is licking his cock with such…and it feels  **so good** .

Suddenly, John takes Sherlock’s cock in deep and hard and fast. Sherlock’s hips snap twice in rapid succession, thrusting to the back of John’s throat, and he comes spectacularly. John swallows without gagging once and then licks at his lover, intensifying the orgasm and then easing him down.

Sherlock sees nothing but stars. His mind is completely offline and feels like it will never be useful again. How did he get here? How did he even meet this brilliant man? And how can he get him to stay by his side forever?

John carefully crawls up his lover’s lithe body and reappears from under the covers just as the man’s mind has cleared, his eyes coming back into focus. The doctor smiles affectionately and kisses Sherlock. He can taste himself mingling with John’s saliva and tea. Sighing into a deeper kiss, Sherlock marvels at this man. His beautiful, unforgettable John.

When their lips part, each man finds himself wrapped in strong arms and held tightly against a warm, firm body. John tilts his head and adopts an expression of mock-consideration.

“Hm. I seem to remember you said something about going to the Yard to meet with Greg sometime today,” affecting an absolutely scandalized manner. “Have... Have I distracted you?”

Sherlock hums contentedly, pulling John ever closer, and pretends to be irritated.

“Those were my plans, yes. I may have to throw you out of bed and back to your own room if you continue to be so insolent.”

John giggles maniacally and meets his eyes.

“Will you spank me?”

“Is that some kind of kink?” Sherlock cocks a brow. “What else must I tolerate to be with you?”

“No! I was kidding, you git,” John laughs. “I did have a girlfriend with a spanking kink once though. It can actually be…mmph!”

Sherlock’s mouth quickly silences him before he can finish the thought and he does not stop until he is convinced it has been snogged from John’s mind. When their lips part, Sherlock places a finger to his lover’s mouth before words can form.

“Yes,” he addresses John’s yet unspoken thoughts. “It seems I am possessive, which I expected, but did not realize the thought of you with someone else would cause such a strong reaction. I love you, John, and I won’t share.”

“You won’t have to,” John smiles behind his long, thin finger. He grins wickedly and sucks the finger into his mouth..

“John Watson, you are insatiable. I'll never get anything done. You are banned from my bed.” Sherlock removes his finger with a pop. Both men giggle riotously and are soon kissing again.

***

John and Mycroft stare at one another, stone-faced, in 221B. He rang the man as soon as Sherlock was out the door to the Yard and asked him to stop by the flat at his earliest convenience. The man turned up a couple hours later, much to John’s chagrin. In spite of having invited him, John is not happy to see the man. John is never particularly pleased to see his boyfriend’s brother. Boyfriend. John still has to get used to that and still hasn’t said it out loud.

Once Mycroft has seated himself in Sherlock’s chair across from John, the two men watch one another in silence. John glares. Mycroft glares back.

“Thank you for stopping by so quickly. I know how busy you are.”

“I won’t help you, John. Not at the cost of my brother’s heart.”

“We are  **not** talking about that again,” he fumes. Mycroft’s sour expression grows darker and he grips his umbrella tightly, but remains silent and waits with impatience. John continues, trying to sound a little less pissed off. “I want to ask you a question.”

“You couldn’t make your inquiry over the phone?”

“No. I want to see your face when I ask.”

“Do you?” the older man asks with a hint of amusement and a healthy dose of condescension in his voice. “You believe you’ve learned from Sherlock’s power of observation? Very well.”

John ignores the older man’s snark and leans forward in his chair a little.

“Have you known Sherlock to have nightmares?”

Mycroft’s chin tilts down, his piercing blue eyes trying to cut scars in John’s skin. If he is surprised by John’s question, he doesn’t show it, but he does pause for a moment before answering in a dismissive tone. 

“Not since he was a boy.”

John studies Mycroft and mulls over his answer. He is positive Mycroft knows more than he is saying, but John also thinks he is telling the truth. Frankly, that’s good enough at the moment. He smiles vaguely and sits back in his comfy chair again.

“Thank you. I’ll tell Sherlock he missed you. I’m sure he’ll be heart broken.”

“Will you, John?” Mycroft cocks a brow. “Will you tell him? Or would you prefer he never know I was here?”

Mycroft leans forward and studies John intensely. The doctor meets his eyes and lets the elder Holmes analyze him. He had hoped Mycroft would just answer the question and leave it at that, but always knew this was how it would end. He knew Mycroft would want to probe deeply into the question and determine why John asked. John sighs and waits for Mycroft to start in.

“Sherlock is having nightmares,” he states plainly and pauses, raising his chin and looking at John with interest. “Frequently?”

“Like classic PTSD,” John nods.

“And he won’t talk about them.”

“No. He made something up when I asked him.”

Mycroft huffs a quiet laugh that makes John go tense. He tamps down his anger at Mycroft’s apparent lack of concern, which the man observes and simply smirks in response.

“Surely you are not upset that he is withholding the truth. That he isn’t being honest and forthright. Trusting. With  **you** ,” he finishes with a smug smile. “I should think his behavior would be something  **you** , of all people, would expect. “

The tenuous hold John has on his anger snaps and he glares at Mycroft with murderous eyes. He leans forward again in his chair and speaks in a quiet and very dangerous voice. By god, if he could stand he’d be toe to toe with the bastard.

“That is  **not** the point. I don’t expect Sherlock to just forget everything I’ve done. I know I don’t deserve his forgiveness, but I will do everything I can to try,” he pauses for an angry sigh. ”Look, I’m concerned about his well-being and his mental health.”

“How noble of you,” Mycroft replies sarcastically, cutting him off.

“You asshole,” he growls low and threatening.

Mycroft makes to respond in kind, but is interrupted when his younger brother, still decked in his belstaff and scarf, bursts into the room. They both turn their heads instantly and gape at the tall detective as he strides right up to them. For his part, Sherlock has no idea why Mycroft is in the flat, but John looks ready to murder him. Whatever they are doing together must end now.

“What do you want?” he snaps at Mycroft, who stands quickly but casually.

“I was just on my way out. I am finished here,” he smiles smugly at both Sherlock and John. Sherlock eyes him suspiciously when his eyes linger on John before facing him again. “Goodbye, dear brother. John.”

John stares daggers at the older man as he walks out of the room. When they hear the door to the flat open and close, Sherlock turns to John and begins to take in every detail of the scene and the man seated before him.

“Why?” is all he says as he gestures toward the doorway. John slowly takes a breath in and lets it out while he studies his detective, trying to gauge how much he already knows. John won’t lie. Not again.

“I invited him,” he says outright. Sherlock’s head snaps around until he’s staring into John’s eyes, his own filled with incredulity. John bites his bottom lip. “I had a question that couldn’t wait.”

“Oh?” Sherlock replies skeptically. “Asking permission for my hand?”

John’s eyes widen in surprise. His mouth drops open without a sound. His throat is suddenly scratchy and dry. Did Sherlock Holmes just make a joke about getting married? Sherlock fucking Holmes. John blinks. His flatmate remains stalk still, looking at him with inquisitive silver eyes.

“No,” John stumbles over the words. “That’s not quite what was on my mind.”

“Mm,” Sherlock shrugs. “Pity.”

John’s eyes grow a little wider as Sherlock leans down to press his lips to John’s. He looks immensely pleased with himself when he backs away to look at John.

“I have takeaway in the kitchen if you’re interested.”

“Um… Of course,” John answers, bewildered. “I’m starving.”

“I thought you might be. I’m feeling rather peckish myself,” extending a hand to help John stand. He doesn’t necessarily need it, but John takes the offered hand anyway and smiles. They start for the kitchen.

“You?” he queries in a jovial tone. “You feel hungry? Write down the time and date.”

Sherlock grins and gives him a little shove. They both chuckle and take a few more steps until the detective stops John with a hand on his elbow. John turns his head and finds his flatmate standing close, very close. His breath drifts over John’s mouth as he speaks.

“After dinner…”

“Yes?” he whispers breathlessly.

“Come to the sofa with me. I want to hold you. We can watch one of those horrid films you like.”

“Mmm…” John answers with a pleased hum in his throat. “What’s brought this on?”

Sherlock’s fingers reach up and card through blonde hair. He nips at John’s lips and whispers.

“I want you,” he gasps and pulls away, looking at John with startled eyes. If John didn’t know better, he would say Sherlock surprised himself with his candor. His eyes dart back and forth between John’s and then he smiles, finally relaxing a bit. “I want to be with you. Touch you. Talk.”

“Well,” John snakes his hands around Sherlock’s body and rests them on his hips. He looks his lover in the eye and smiles back. “That sounds like a perfect evening to me.”

***

After dinner and a few minutes of crap telly, John picks up the remote and clicks off an eye-rolling rom-com. Placing a hand on Sherlock’s thigh, he turns his head to find the detective looking at him with soft eyes. He gives his leg a squeeze.

“What’s on your mind?” John asks quietly. He knows that look. Either he’s considering another dangerous case or he wants to ask John something that will undoubtedly get him in trouble. 

“A friend has asked for my help. It would take me away for a week,” he answers slowly, cautiously.

“Okay.”

Sherlock turns his body, bending one knee and resting it on the sofa, so he can face John fully. He stretches one arm over the back of the sofa, his fingertips just touching John’s shoulder.

“In Nepal. I’d have to go to Nepal.”

“Oh,” John looks a little surprised, but schools his expression quickly. He puffs out a breath. “That’s farther away than I would’ve thought, but it’s fine.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and gives his doctor a perfect ‘Oh really?’ look. John chuckles quietly and moves his hand to Sherlock’s knee. Long, pale fingers immediately cover it. They are so warm, so comfortable that John already feels a tug at his heart for the time they will be gone.

“John,” Sherlock begins hesitantly, “I am not certain this is the best time for me to leave you on your own, especially when…”

“Oh, god. Sherlock, you don’t have to look after me. I am perfectly capable and that thing with the break-in was a one-off.”

“Yes, but…”

“I never would’ve let that guy get me out of the flat and you know it. I’ll be fine. It’s only a week and Mrs. Hudson is right downstairs. Mycroft is always spying on us and he’s not going to stop just because you’re gone. In fact, he might even step it up. Point is, you don’t have to worry.”

“I know,” he gently cups John’s face in his hands. “I know, but I do. I’ve never worried about anyone in my life. It is both wonderful to care for you and love that you care for me, but it is also terrifying.”

John covers the detective’s hands with his own and smiles tenderly. He turns his face into Sherlock’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm.

“I know. I feel the same way,” he pauses and resists the urge to bite his lip. “Is it going to be dangerous?”

“Possibly.”

John inhales deeply and sighs. He holds onto Sherlock’s hands and guides them to rest on his own chest where he holds them tightly between his own. Looking deeply into those curious and wary silver eyes, he steels himself and sits up a little straighter. 

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course,” Sherlock finally smiles and it takes John’s breath away. He leans forward slowly and kisses his doctor softly. John sighs, knowing how much he will miss this. When their lips part, Sherlock looks at him with hungry eyes. His voice comes out deeper than usual.

“I leave in the morning. Would you like to help me pack? I’m rubbish at packing.”

John can’t stop the giggle on his lips. He grins against his flatmate’s mouth. The detective closes his eyes at the feeling of John’s warm breath over his lips. When he opens them again, John has pulled back and is looking at him with twinkling eyes.

“You aren’t rubbish at packing, but I’ll help if it means I can spend more time with you before you go.“

“Perfect,” Sherlock jumps off the sofa and then pauses. “Did I mention I need to launder the very clothes I am wearing now? I’m afraid I will be rather improperly dressed.”

“No…no, you didn’t mention that,” John tries to answer in a serious tone. Sherlock raises his brows and looks the picture of demure.

“You may, of course, decline if it will put you in an awkward position.” He offers a hand to John, even as he speaks and John takes it instantly.

“I’ll muddle through.”

The detective pulls the smaller man off the sofa and into his arms, where they share a searing kiss. Moments later, they are in the bedroom, dropping crutches and clothing before they tumble onto the bed. Sherlock slowly eases John down and straddles his good leg. The two men lock eyes and just drink everything in - the warmth of their bodies, fingers grasping at naked flesh, skin touching skin, every nerve alive with sensation. John looks up at Sherlock, smiles growing on both of their faces. He reaches for the man’s long neck just as he is about to crack a joke and pulls him down for a deep kiss. As Sherlock licks into his mouth roughly, John growls and tugs lightly at his curls. Oh god, how he is going to miss this man. But he will only be gone for a week...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And another chapter is in the books! I hope you all enjoyed it. The next one is already edited and will be up soon. Yay!
> 
> Thank you again, all of you for all your support and love. Knowing you all are out there and loving my idiots makes me heart sing! 
> 
> Also, a little update. I'm not entirely certain yet, but it's starting to look like this part may end up being 10 chapters instead of 9. AH, the suspense! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is in Nepal and he gets in trouuuuublllllllle.

Sherlock stands alone in a private visitation room in a Kathmandu prison. He arrived in Nepal two days prior and has spent all of his time arguing his way into this very spot. He strolls around the white-walled room, devoid of furniture or any other convenience. A clock is the only hint that people have ever entered the room. Sherlock does the math as he reads the time. It is roughly 1am in London. His mind drifts to John, still asleep in their bed. Sherlock pictures his doctor in boxer shorts and a white tee, eyes closed, his head moving slowly to one side, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips as he sleeps. John’s tongue. John’s lips.

The door to the room opens suddenly. Sherlock straightens as a guard escorts in the prisoner he is there to see. The guard speaks to him in Nepali. They have a brief conversation that ends with a hoarse chuckle from the guard and a neutral expression from Sherlock. The wide guard leaves the room, locking the door behind. Once the man is gone, Sherlock turns to face Irene Adler.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she smiles. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I arrived in Nepal two days ago. This visit was no small task.”

“I know. I’m impressed. Especially considering how dangerous I am,” she chortles.

“Why were you arrested?”

“Business first, Sherlock? Now I am disappointed,” Irene clucks her tongue and moves closer to him, giving him a playfully seductive look. “You don’t want to start with something more interesting?”

Sherlock remains still and stares her down with an intense glare. She moves even closer to touch him and speaks in a breathy voice.

“You did, after all, just tell the guard that you are my husband,” pausing to blow warm air across his lips, “and here for a conjugal visit.”

Sherlock takes hold of her wrists and removes her hands from his person as he takes a step away from her. Releasing her hands, he fixes her with an impatient and very annoyed expression.

“One:” he begins, “You prefer the company of women.”

“And you, Sherlock Holmes, are exactly the man I would make an exception for.”

“Two:” he gives her an icy glare, “I am unavailable and will  **not** make an exception for you.”

Irene watches him carefully as she takes a step back and settles her weight on one foot. She crosses her arms and flashes a dazzling smile.

“You’ve found yourself a girlfriend since I last saw you, eh? Well done.” Suddenly her smile falls and is replaced with alarm. “Oh, god. Tell me you aren’t married.”

Sherlock sighs loudly, very impatient with this tedious line of questioning.

“No.”

“Engaged then.”

“No. John and I are together,” he finally supplies, anxious to drop the subject and get to the matter at hand. Irene shifts her weight to both feet and gives him a very self-satisfied smirk.

“I’ll be damned if I didn’t call that one,” she breathes. Sherlock just cocks a brow and Irene shakes her head with a laugh. “Never mind. So, are you going to help me get out?”

“Ah, good. Coming to the point,” he looks her in the eye. “Why were you arrested?”

Irene smiles to herself and walks passed him. He turns with her so he can still read everything in her step and demeanor. She does not turn to face him.

“You know how governments are with their petty laws.”

“Which I assume you broke readily. The fact that you allowed yourself to be caught is curious.”

“I wouldn’t say I let myself be caught,” she says with a cackle. “It was more like a setup.”

Sherlock finds himself rolling his eyes. Tiring of her vague responses and this ridiculous dance they are engaged in, he takes a step forward and asks once more in a commanding voice.

“Why were you arrested.”

The Woman finally faces him with a gleam in her eye.

“I murdered a man.”

“Indeed. A high-ranking one. You knew what he liked, of course. You killed him because he betrayed you years ago and it was time to exact revenge,” Sherlock says easily. Irene’s eyes begin to harden and the corners of her lips turn down, but he pays no mind and continues. “But someone else sought revenge as well.” He pauses to read her face and then smiles somewhat sinisterly. “James Moriarty.”

“Well done, detective. He was unhappy with me for the interruption at the pool,” shrugging in her own suggestive way. “And then when you unlocked my mobile and spoiled all of my wonderful plans… He’d become very tired of me.”

“Enough to make sure you were arrested from the grave?”

“From the grave? Ha! You underestimate the amount of time I’ve been here, Sherlock. I first entered this...lovely facility before you put an end to Jim Moriarty,” she grimaces. The detective cocks a brow and eyes her quizzically. “It has taken me a very long time to get a message to you, but it was worth it. I knew you would be too intrigued to refuse. What I am confused about is why you didn’t bring your plucky little doctor with you, especially...since the two of you are together.”

She places extra emphasis on the word ‘together’, saying it slowly like a taunt. There is a long pause while he reads every thought, every emotion on her face. When they met, she was a mystery, an enigma. But now, Sherlock can deduce her as easily as anyone else. He sees the typical smug confidence and cunning Irene uses to mask everything else. And he can also see her fear, well-hidden though it may be. Fear of dying in this prison, of torture the likes of which only Moriarty would imagine and which no one deserves to suffer. 

“I assure you, it has nothing to do with you,” he strides to the door and knocks once, but turns back before it opens. “I will assist you.”

A nearly imperceptible look of relief flashes in her eyes and disappears just as quickly. The door opens suddenly and the guard steps inside, gesturing for Irene to follow back to her cell. She dutifully walks to the door, stopping very briefly to flash a suggestive smile at the detective.

“Thank you, dear.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as soon as the door closes behind her.

****

Sherlock spends the next three days putting the pieces of his plan to spring Irene into action. He enlists the help of a family friend who holds great sway with high officials in the government in an attempt free her legally, as well as a very savvy pick-pocket he has known since his first trip to Nepal twelve years ago. He cannot say whether it will happen through honest or dishonest means, but Irene Adler will be a newly liberated woman some time tomorrow.

Sitting in his hotel room, quietly thinking through the details as he gazes out the window into the starry night, Sherlock’s mind drifts to John. It is close to dinnertime in London. John has either procured takeaway or is indulging Mrs. Hudson’s desire to make sure he is well-fed throughout his infirmity. Sherlock wonders how he is doing with the walking cast. When last he texted, John was very happy to be off crutches, but had found it a little more difficult to adjust than he expected. Sherlock closes his eyes and imagines John walking on his own two feet again, but is pulled from his reverie when his mobile sounds a text alert. He picks it up quickly when he sees John’s name appear.

_ I miss you. _

_ You had to text me just to state the obvious? -SH _

_ Absolutely. And it’s not just because I’m in the bath. _

_ Ah. The truth comes out. -SH   _ Sherlock snickers in the quiet hotel room.

_ Tell me again why you sign your messages. _

_ Again, obvious. -SH _

_ I know it’s you. _

_ Beside the point. -SH _

_ There are only two days left in your week-long trip. Will you be back when you planned? -Shag me senseless _

_ I like your signature. -I’d love to _

_ And, yes, I will be home in two days time. -I miss you _

_ Can’t wait for you to -Shag me senseless _

_ I see what you did there. -I love you _

_ I love you too. _

***

“Sherlock?”

A faraway voice echoes through Sherlock’s ears. His head feels heavy, like it’s full of lead. He tries to move it from side to side slowly. It feels like he’s bogged down in muck, thick enough to suffocate and unrelenting. He hears his name again, a little closer this time. He wants the voice to be John, but he knows it isn’t John. He struggles to open his eyes. Slowly, very slowly the muscles obey and his head moves more easily. His eyes flutter open to see a blurry version of Irene Adler. He blinks a few times, trying to get his bearings.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” his eyes quickly come into focus and he looks around. “Where are we?”

He is lying on the cool linoleum floor of a small room with white walls. It resembles the prison’s visitation room in many ways, but has a few pieces of furniture. Before he can examine anymore of their surroundings, he becomes acutely aware that Irene is suddenly very close to him. Her lips are mere inches from his. His eyes slide slowly to meet hers, but he is careful not to move his head. Their lips would undoubtedly brush together if he did. Her breath grazes over his cheek.

“Are you all right? You’ve been out much longer than I expected. Whatever they used must have been strong,” she whispers, inching closer, a hand stroking his curls. “I was ready to use the kiss of life.”

“Pointless,” he replies, unruffled and watching her carefully, “since I was obviously breathing.”

“Don’t be so scandalized,” she smirks. “I only wanted to wake you. I think it would have worked quite well, don’t you?”

Sherlock lets out a sigh of frustration, turns his face away from hers, and quickly stands to take in their surroundings. There is a bed and a set of shelves containing nothing but a small amount of edible dry goods. At a glance, it looks like enough to sustain the two of them for a handful of days. The walls around he and Irene are circular as though they are at the bottom of a very tall cylinder. His eyes follow the perfectly smooth walls three stories up to the circular ceiling as Irene begins speaking. A trap door lies in the center of the ceiling.

“Only way in or out,” she looks up at the trapdoor with him. When she drops her eyes to look at him, she gestures at the only other door in the room. “Loo.”

“And the walls are impossible to climb.”

“Yes, they are. We’re going to be here for a long time, Sherlock. Unless, of course, your trusty boyfriend has any idea how to find us,” she lets out a rather undignified snort.

“You underestimate him.”

“I certainly hope so.”

There is a moment of silence while they study one another. Irene gazes at him steadily, assessing his survival skills and his opinion as to whether they have any chance in hell that John will find them somehow. She breaks away from Sherlock’s eyes after a few minutes and nods at the makeshift pantry.

“There isn’t much food. If you don’t eat any more than I do, and from the looks of you, I’d say you don’t, we have enough for four or five days.”

“Water?” Sherlock asks as he walks to the shelving unit.

“Sink in the loo. We’re meant to starve,” she supplies. “And they’ve even left us a clock so we can count the down the seconds.”

“Indeed.”

Irene’s mouth curves into a sly grin and she walks to the bed with a swing in her hips.

“Whatever shall we do to entertain ourselves?”

Sherlock furrows his brow and fixes her with a very irritated stare.

“You are being tiresome.”

“I just thought your opinion on the subject might have changed. Considering our limited time left on earth and all. You’re still the only exception to my rule.”

“Dull,” is all she gets as Sherlock sifts through the food.

“Oh, it won’t be dull,” Irene licks her lips as she begins undressing the tall man with her eyes. He continues his search of the food, ignoring her completely. “I once told you I’d have you twice on your desk until you were begging for mercy.” 

Sherlock’s eyes look up at her, exuding ‘It’s never going to happen.’ She stares back at him hotly, picturing miles of pale, naked flesh and thinking what a lucky bastard John Watson is to have it. She really must congratulate him if she ever sees him again. Her red lips curve into a smoldering grin.

“This isn’t your desk, but it’ll do.”

“Boring,” the detective rolls his eyes and continues rifling through the food. “You used to be much more interesting.”

Before she can respond, he steps away from the shelves and faces her triumphantly. He grins brightly and holds up a bag of jelly babies.

“Chess?”

***

“Checkmate.”

“What? That’s not your queen.”

“Yes it is.”

“This is your queen,” Sherlock argues, pointing at another piece of candy.

“That’s a bishop,” Irene frowns.

“A bishop?”

“Yes,” she declares, grabbing a piece from the side of their cobbled together board. “It looks just like this one.”

Sherlock furrows his brow, scrubs his hands over his face, and rises to his feet. Irene watches as he wearily plops down on the floor and leans against the foot of the bed. She stands and then joins him. They are both tired and haggard. They have done their best to escape over the last few days, but nothing has worked. Not that any of their attempts had much chance of succeeding. Dismantling the shelving unit and rebuilding it into a long metal arm was the best shot they had. They managed to reach the trapdoor thirty-five feet above, but could not budge it. A. Because it was locked from the outside, and B. Because even if it hadn’t been locked, the arm wasn’t strong enough to push it open. They couldn’t have climbed out regardless, but had hoped that their cries for help would catch someone’s ear. It was a longshot and neither of them had much faith that it would work. It didn’t.

“It’s been five days, Sherlock,” Irene sighs, touching his arm lightly. “Tomorrow we’ll be out of food.”

“I am well aware of our situation.”

He pulls his knees to his chest and lets his head sink forward to rest on them. Irene finds herself watching in stunned silence. Since he awoke on the floor next to her, Sherlock has shown no sign of concern or emotion - other than annoyance and boredom. The man sitting next to her now is tired and lonely and losing all well-hidden hope. She rests a gentle hand on the man’s back, just between his shoulder blades.

“You miss him.”

Sherlock’s head snaps up and he looks at her with a carefully schooled expression. She looks back at him with soft eyes.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “It’s okay to let me see. We aren’t enemies anymore. I called on you because I think of you as an ally… A friend.”

Sherlock studies her with hard eyes, waiting to eventually see the smugness return and the smirk on her face. Not only is the great Sherlock Holmes is not smart enough to save his own life, but he would also trade that chance just to see John Watson one last time before the end. But what he expects to see never comes. All he sees, instead, is her sincerity. Ashamed of himself, Sherlock looks away.

“Yes, I miss him.”

“You really do love him,”  Irene strokes his neck absently.

“Yes.” 

“When you said you were together, I thought...it was just sex,” she begins in a soft voice. “But it’s much more than that, isn’t it?”

“It makes little difference now. Just…”

She silences him with a quick rush of movement, pressing her lips to his and opening her mouth. Her hand grasps the back of his neck tightly and her other hand wraps around a bicep to pull him close. Sherlock gasps and then freezes in surprise. As her tongue begins to run along John’s favorite lower lip, Sherlock regains his senses and pushes her away forcefully.

“What the fuck?!”

“Sherlock, wait.”

He doesn’t speak again and puts a significant distance between them.

“Sherlock, we’ll be dead in a few days. No one is ever going to find us,” she pauses as he glares at her. “He’ll never know.” 

“You say that like it makes a difference,” he bites out the words in anger, but his eyes are filled with anguish. “I love John. I love him with all of the heart I never believed I possessed.” His eyes are fiery and his face full of determination. “I mean to marry him.”

Irene’s mouth falls open in shock. Sherlock continues, his voice full of unguarded emotion.

“I may never see him again, but I will still  **not** spend my final days betraying him.”

Silence falls over the room. Neither of them can move their eyes from the other. Eventually, that sly smile spreads across Irene’s face again. Sherlock sighs heavily, expecting another attempt at flirtation. His shoulders sag and he looks away, certain his words have meant nothing to her.

“John Watson must be quite a man,” she breathes. Sherlock’s eyes snap back to hers and she shrugs. “He’s definitely cute and I’ve heard he’s very well-built under those jumpers. I suppose it’s understandable.”

Sherlock’s reply stops in his throat when a loud clatter sounds from above. They both look at the trapdoor nestled in the ceiling three stories above. There is another clatter and a few gunshots. The prisoners glance at one another for a split-second, trying to formulate some kind of plan in the blink of an eye, but the door is pulled open before either can do anything. Night air whips into the room and quickly makes its way down to their nostrils. The smell of the fresh, rainy air is delicious as it fills their lungs and large drops of water pelt the floor a few feet from them.

Sherlock looks up again and, though he can see nothing against the backdrop of the night sky, the disgruntled voice that calls down tells him all he needs to know.

“Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!”

“John contacted you,” Sherlock shouts up.

“John threatened me,” his brother answers.

A small smiles dances across Sherlock’s lips. Mycroft, who is likely soaked and greatly annoyed, cannot hide the sound of relief in his voice and it amuses Sherlock so much that he nearly giggles. He looks at Irene again to see her smiling at him fondly.

“Quite the little cinnamon roll, that John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ALL for reading and caring. Please, please send comments if you'd like. I love reading them! They can be about the story, the weather, ideas, speculations of what might happen further on in the story, whatever. I love connecting with people and feel very connected to all of you. Just making someone happy with each chapter I post is the most awesome feeling ever. You all are my lifeline. <3  
> Jane
> 
> Next chapter: The boys are reunited. AH! XOXOXOXOX


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are reunited! Film at 11.  
> John talks to Greg about Sherlock's nightmares.  
> Sherlock proposes. Sherlock proposes?!?! 0_0  
> .....confessions and a row.

Sherlock quietly enters the darkened flat he shares with John Watson around midnight. He drops his bag, which his brother’s cohorts were able to retrieve from the hotel in Nepal with surprising ease, on the floor with a clunk. Glancing down the hall as he hangs his Belstaff and scarf, he sees dim light pouring from the sitting room door. Conversation from the telly becomes more clear as he walks swiftly down the hall.

When Sherlock turns to stand in the doorway, his eyes immediately fall to a dozing Dr. John Watson. His stomach flutters. He steps forward - one step, then another. This memory will rest in the annals of his mind palace forever more.

Sherlock’s breath catches and he stands stalk still when the doctor’s eyes suddenly snap open and, as if he knew Sherlock was there all along. His head turns to look at the frozen detective and when John speaks, his voice sounds like a breathless gasp.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft told you I was on my way?” he asks hesitantly with wide eyes.

“Yes, he told me. Said you were being held underground.”

“I’m fine.”

“I can see that,” reaching with his left hand. “Come here.”

Sherlock resumes walking toward John, only to stop in surprise when the man stands and closes the distance between them. They look each other over for a beat, Sherlock still wearing a shocked expression. Electricity fills the air around them and their bodies vibrate with it.

“Walking cast,” John gives him a small smile. “I mentioned it...”

“Yes, you did,” Sherlock interrupts, “but to see you actually walking again. It’s, it’s good. Just like being home.”

John’s heart melts and he steps closer. Close enough for Sherlock to feel the heat from his body. They look into each other’s eyes, both silently memorizing everything about this moment. Every one of the smallest details as though neither man can believe the other is standing in front of him. The electricity is replaced with reverence.

Gently touching John’s fingers with his own and holding them, Sherlock bends his neck and lightly brushes his lips over John’s. They hold for another beat, breathing deeply, eyes closed. Each admitting to himself for the first time that he honestly feared he would never feel this again. As if of the same mind, they inhale together and then sigh. John pushes up on his toes, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s in a soft kiss. The sensation envelops Sherlock and drives everything from his mind, save John.

John. His John.

John, whose lips Sherlock has now persuaded to open. His tongue licks inside, wanting to reach every surface and taste every flavor. Sherlock’s arms are around the small man’s body, pulling it close before Sherlock even realizes he has moved. And John’s hands are on him, touching him. Sherlock’s back and shoulders feel hot enough to burn from John’s touch, and are instantly cold when those hands move to his biceps.

Sherlock pulls back suddenly and meets John’s eyes with an intense silver gaze.

“I want you,” he pants “Please.”

He watches as John’s dark pupils expand.

“Then take me to bed.”

***

John eases down on the bed, Sherlock crawling on next to him. Both are already divested of clothing and don’t take an eye off the other. Sherlock surges forward for a heated kiss, desperate to touch John again. When he breaks away, Sherlock mouths and bites at jawline and neck, leaving small pink marks on the latter.

“Ah, god, Sherlock,” John moans, clutching and scratching at his back. Then, to his embarrassment, a stream of words flows from his mouth. His every thought plots right onto the bed with them. “I missed you so much and when two more days went by, I knew something had happened. You didn’t even text. I thought I’d never see you.”

“Shh,” he raises his eyes to look at his lover. “You know me so well, John, and you’ve saved me again. In more ways than you know. I love you more than I will  **ever** be able to express.”

They share another kiss that quickly goes from sweet to searing. Sherlock pushes up to rest on one elbow and carefully brushes two fingers over John’s hole. John gasps, his body still.

“May I?” he breathes barely above a whisper and brushing again. “Please.”

There is no blue left in John’s eyes as he touches a hand to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Yes,” he licks his lips. “Take me, Sherlock.”

John smiles fondly and watches Sherlock scramble off the bed to get the lube from the bedside table. When his anxious hands begin fumbling with the drawer and then the bottle, John laughs quietly at the normally composed and collected detective. When Sherlock turns to face him again, it is with a frown.

“Do you find something amusing?”

“Just you,” John smiles, even as Sherlock’s frown deepens. He crawls onto the bed to lie down next to the small, but incredibly sexy, man again.

“I have done nothing that would merit such a reaction.”

John giggles again and brushes a curl from Sherlock’s forehead.

“You’re adorable.” His giggles continue as the little creases he loves so much form between Sherlock’s brows. He wants to kiss them.

“That word has never once been used to describe me.”

“Of course it has,” he touches his detective’s cheek again. “I just didn’t say it out loud.”

The creases deepen and John keeps giggling, sliding his hand from cheek to firm shoulder. He pulls his detective in for a kiss. Their mouths lock, John’s tongue caressing Sherlock’s incredibly soft lips. Sherlock pulls John closer and is soon kissing every surface he can reach, panting as he listens to John’s gasps. Sherlock licks down John’s neck to his hairless chest, devouring every inch of sweet skin. As his tongue dances over the doctor’s left nipple, he considers what John might do to his skin to make it taste decidedly sweet and delicious, but not sugary. He lavishes attention on the other nipple. Is it his bodywash?

John’s back arches into Sherlock, their cocks pressing together. John is gasping and moaning. He cups his hands around Sherlock’s head and tilts it up to look into his eyes. He looks as though he wants to eat the tall man whole.

“Touch me, Sherlock. Please, touch me now.”

The detective licks his lips, the corners of his mouth quirking up. Easing John’s good leg around his own hips, he locates the bottle of lube and covers his fingers before tracing once around John’s hole.

“Ah, god. I’ve wanted…” John gasps as the finger presses in to its first knuckle.

“You must tell me if I hurt you,” Sherlock whispers. John lifts his head to meet Sherlock’s dark eyes, his own full of hunger and arousal.

“You won’t hurt me.” The finger goes in to the next knuckle and John sucks air in through his teeth. “Oh, god, that feels so good.”

Sherlock wiggles his finger a bit as it slides in smoothly. He skillfully massages the tight heat all around. Pulling the finger nearly all the way out once the muscle surrounding it has relaxed, he pushes it back in slowly and repeats. The little noises from John reward his efforts and soon Sherlock removes his finger to be replaced by two. They are in to the first knuckle when John’s uncasted leg kicks out suddenly and is just as quickly pulled back in. It wraps tightly around Sherlock’s body. John’s hands clutch at the man’s broad shoulders and he bites his lip.

Sherlock watches John and doesn’t move an inch, unsure if the kick was in pleasure or pain. He breathes a small sigh of relief when John opens his eyes and gives him a short nod.

“More,” John moans. Sherlock pushes in further. “Oh, god. More.”

John closes his eyes in rapture as Sherlock continues his ministrations. His own cock is leaking and bobbing in tandem with John’s. When three fingers are comfortably in, Sherlock begins on John’s prostate, stroking so luxuriously that he, himself can barely stand it. 

John’s eyes snap open and stare at him with need. His hands cover Sherlock’s to force it still. When his mouth opens his voice comes out low and graveley, and it goes straight to the detective’s nether regions.

“Now. Right now.”

Unable to grasp speech at that moment, Sherlock nods and disengages his fingers. Finding the lube quickly, he coats himself and lines up their bodies. Both men shudder as he pushes in slowly and it is amazing. As though they are perfectly made for one another and slot in place like two halves of the same piece.

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes as he goes all the way in. He feels John’s warm hands rest on his back and begins canting his hips slowly. Switching between rocking and lightly thrusting, Sherlock begins whispering.

“I love you, John. You are my sun and moon, my comfort and my sorrow. All of my days are full of you. No one else has ever meant as much or ever will.”

John pushes past the intense pleasure for a moment and forces his eyes open. When he sees Sherlock’s open expression and closed eyes, he wonders if the man is aware that he’s speaking out loud.

“I give you everything freely. You could take it all and destroy me. But you won’t.”

His pace quickens and John can’t help but thrust back. Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at John. He grasps John’s cock and begins pumping. John pulls their hips closer in time with their thrusts.

“Oh Christ,” Sherlock chokes out. “Oh Christ, John.”

“Sherlock.”

“I want you. I want to be with you forever. Marry me!”

With those words, both men come on the spot, crying out the other’s name and cursing and pressing as hard as each is able.

Sherlock continues stroking John through, but slower and more gently. His hips keep thrusting ever so and his mind meanders back out of the haze of desire. When reality sets in again, Sherlock’s eyes open wide in panic as his final words register. He had been fully aware of what he was saying, but somehow hadn’t realized he actually was speaking and the words had just slipped out. While he most certainly still intends to marry John and be the best husband he can, this is not how he wanted to propose.

He watches in horror as John opens his eyes and quickly schools his expression to hide the panic from his boyfriend. Boyfriend? His only hope is that John was too distracted by climax to fully comprehend what he’d said. The detective suddenly realizes that he is frozen in place - not a dead give-away at all. He fixes his eyes on John, but his face is impossible to read. Shit. He holds his breath, preparing an apology. But John’s eyes brighten and a smile dances over his lips. His hands seem to float up and down Sherlock’s back.

“That. Was. Amazing,” he says, shaking his head in awe of the gorgeous man above him. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

The detective smiles back. The panic melting away.

“I love you.” He traces his fingers around on John’s wet belly. “How’s your leg?”

“Mm…hurts a little.”

Sherlock shifts John’s leg off of his body. Laying a hand on the doctor’s cheek and pulling him into a kiss, he runs his tongue along that hot lower lip. Parting, but still with just inches between them, Sherlock looks deeply into sparkling blue eyes.

“I hope you don’t think this is the only reason I wanted to come back here, back to you,” Sherlock utters sincerely.

“Of course I know that, you git,” John laughs. But his flatmate’s expression is deadly serious.

“I have never truly belonged anywhere, but I belong here by your side. In all my life of deductions and conclusions, I have not felt anything so strongly. This is where I forever will be.”

John looks at Sherlock solemnly.

“I will never leave again.” He kisses Sherlock softly. The detective touches their foreheads together, his hand still on John’s cheek. His reply is quiet and rhythmic and sounds like a song.

“I know, I know.” After a moment of reverent silence, Sherlock moves away and twists his body to reach for something on the floor. “We need to clean up.”

“No,” John says suddenly in a firm tone, grabbing at Sherlock’s waist. “Don’t go.”

Sherlock turns back with a smile and a shirt in his hand. He swiftly wipes them both up before tossing it to the floor again. John tries to look stern.

“I think that was mine.”

“No loss then,” Sherlock replies with indifference, but also a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh, ta very much,” John tries to cross his arms over his chest, but Sherlock won’t budge. He wants every inch of skin to touch and touch for as long as possible, thank you very much. John frowns in mock irritation, even though he knows his detective sees right through it. Sherlock wears a small mischievous smile as his hands find John’s waist. John gives up and grins when his detective pulls him close, unable to hold back his joy any longer. They cuddle in close.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

“As am I,” the detective breathes, his voice growing deeper and sleepy. They hold each other for a few minutes before John’s arms go slack. Sherlock listens as his breathing slows and evens. Knowing his doctor is asleep, he kisses his head softly. “My home is with you, John. Always with you.”

***

“Thanks for coming, Greg. I know you’re busy,” John hands his friend a cup of tea and sits down with him at the dining table. 

It has been three days since Sherlock’s return from Nepal and John is worried. He’s still ecstatic to have his detective back by his side, but is also terribly concerned about the man. He has thrashed and shouted himself awake every night since, and awoken John each time as well. He always assures John that the nightmares are just a side effect of his captivity, but John doesn’t believe him for a minute. He knows full well that Moriarty is the star of every one of them, just like before Sherlock left and it’s time to try to do something about it. 

John is certainly no stranger to PTSD and knows many, many ways to cope with it, but hasn’t been able to help Sherlock as yet. Most of that lies in not possessing a complete understanding of the problem and, with his flatmate remaining tight-lipped and his brother offering no assistance, there is only one more avenue for information. Enter: Greg Lestrade.

“Think nothing of it. I’m always at your disposal,” Greg answers and sips his tea. He places the mug on the table and rubs his hands together in anticipation. “So, what’s up?”

John shifts uneasily, beginning to second-guess the decision to voice his concerns to Greg. Being ever more perceptive than Sherlock believes, Greg takes notice of John’s discomfort and raises his brows in his own inquisitive concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Fine,” John inhales deeply. “Look, I’m a bit concerned about Sherlock, honestly.”

“Mm. Where is your better half anyway?”

“Tesco.”

“Really,” Greg grins, leaning back in his chair. “The Great Sherlock Holmes is doing the shopping?”

“You’d be surprised how domestic he’s become while I’ve been sidelined.” John is about to delve into the reason he asked Greg over when he notices the man’s expression and pauses. Greg has a very genuine smile on his face as he looks at John fondly. John can’t help a small smile of his own. “What?”

Realizing he’s been staring almost affectionately, Greg clears his throat and adopts a more business-like expression.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just…” He leans in and rests his forearms on the table, looking at John seriously. “I’ve known Sherlock a long time. I knew the moment I met him that he’s a good man. He’s fucking brilliant.” They both chuckle in agreement. “But he is an asshole. Rude, unkind, misguided. It was hard to watch when the drugs started to destroy him. It nearly killed Mycroft.”

John doesn’t miss even a fraction of the sincerity in Greg’s voice. 

“You and Mycroft are better acquainted than Sherlock thinks,” he murmurs.

“Maybe,” Greg nods minutely. “For years now, we’ve kept an eye on him. When Mycroft forced Sherlock into rehab, I helped him along by telling him I’d never give him another case again until he was clean. It was a great day for all of us the day he walked out of that place and back into my office.”

Greg fixes John with a very intense expression.

“I always knew he was capable of so much more, John, and you’ve helped him do it. You’ve helped him find his humanity. However you may see it, you are good for him. The best.”

Swallowing at the lump forming in his throat, John can’t think what to say. He wonders for a moment if he’ll be able to say anything at all without blubbering like a fool and quickly tries to come back to himself.

“Ta, Greg. He’s done the same for me. He’s given me so much.”

Greg smiles and nods, and then straightens up.

“Now, what did you want to see me about? You say you’re worried about Sherlock?”

Thankful for the change of subject, even if it is also a difficult one, John nods and also straightens a bit.

“Have you ever known him to have nightmares? About cases or his childhood or,” he shrugs, “anything, really?”

“Nightmares?” Greg takes a moment to consider John’s words. “No. To be fair, I’m not sure that he’d tell me if he had.”

“I know. I was afraid you’d say that.”

“He’s having them now?”

“Yep,” popping his ‘P’ like Sherlock often does. Greg bites back a grin.

“And I take it you don’t think it’s from what just happened. I mean, he was basically left in a hole to die.”

“No,” John shakes his head. ”It started way before that and now it’s coming every night. He tries not to wake me and tells me shit when I ask. It’s definitely PTSD, but I can’t help him if I don’t know the root source.” 

“Any ideas what that might be?”

“Moriarty. He’s admitted they’re about him being killed and me tortured.” 

“Christ.”

“Greg,” John leans on the table to get as close as he can to his friend. He subconsciously lowers his voice as if telling a secret, despite the fact that no one else is in the flat. Greg reflexively leans closer too. “What he said last night, the violence of his actions, the way he woke up...it was more than torture. It was something else. Something horrible.”

“What’s worse than torture?” Greg studies his friend in the silence that follows. John is looking right at him, but Greg can tell he doesn’t see him.

John is reliving the night before. Sherlock’s agonized words echo through his mind. The terrorized face he could see even in the darkness when he woke next to his lover. How the man had gasped and cried and clutched at John’s body with a death grip until he finally fell asleep again, leaving John with a thousand questions that would go unanswered.

John blinks once, twice, and refocuses on Greg. He opens his mouth to answer, but stifles it when Sherlock suddenly strides into the room. Both John and Greg jump back quickly into their chairs, looking at him with wide eyes and guilty expressions. The detective looks at them with a cocked brow. He knows full well what sort of conversation he interrupted. He knew he could not continue to hide the real content of his nightmares from John, especially after last night, but hadn’t expected him to talk with Lestrade about it. Sherlock bites back a scowl and looks to the detective inspector.

“Lestrade, you have a case for me?” he sniffs.

“A case?” Greg wears the face of a child caught in the cookie jar. “Uh, no. Actually, I came to see how John is. Have a bit of a visit.”

“Ah. Good, good.” An awkward silence settles in the room. Of all three men, none of them is sure what to do next. Until, that is, Greg decides to bail on John. He rises quickly and starts toward Sherlock and the door.

“I was just about to go anyway. Gotta get back at it. See you later, John. Sherlock.”

Greg slips past Sherlock and disappears down the hall. As the flatmates continue to assess one another in silence, a cloud high in the sky finally rolls by the sun. A beam of light bursts through the dining room window, illuminating a large swath of the floor and turning John’s hair the shimmering color of gold. And just like that, the atmosphere lifts. John smiles up at his detective and stands. He takes the few steps to his lover and kisses him lightly. Sherlock can’t stop a small smile as John’s hands slide around his slim waist to the small of his back.

“It took longer than I expected,” Sherlock huffs. “The checkout lines were a nightmare.”

“S’okay.”

“It’s the middle of the day, John. Why aren’t those people at work?”

John laughs outright, which should make the detective more irritable, but the sound of that laughter, a sound he thought he might not hear again only a few days ago, warms his heart. Sherlock grins down at his doctor and wraps his long arms around John’s broad shoulders. He simply watches for a moment as John continues laughing and then tries to compose himself again. In the end, Sherlock has a cocked brow and John is stifling his giggles.

“I didn’t think it was quite that funny.” His lover giggles again. “You sit. I’ll just put away the shopping and make sandwiches for lunch,” the detective states as he disentangles himself from his flatmate. 

“Oo. I’m in trouble now. You already know the one thing that’ll get you whatever you want,” he jokes. “I’ll help, shall I?”

“As you wish,” Sherlock takes John’s hand as they walk into the kitchen. Without saying a word, they begin their work. They dance around one another, putting away the groceries and then make lunch side by side. Each adds pieces to both sandwiches until they finally have two enormous stacks of meat, cheese, and veg on their plates. Sherlock slides a mug of hot tea toward John as he sits down at the kitchen table with him. John takes it with a nod, and watches as Sherlock holds up a bag of crisps and waggles his eyebrows. John laughs into his mug and they tuck in. 

“I would like you to accompany me on an outing of sorts after our meal. We will be within walking distance. Are you able?”

“God, yes,” he says around his sandwich. “I need to get out, Sherlock. I’m going mad.”

Sherlock nods, a pleased look on his face, and takes a large bite. He tries to keep just how happy he is that John accepted his invitation from showing on his face. He has something planned for this particular outing and does not want John to suspect. He smiles at John over his sandwich and swallows the bite.

“You are very easy to please today,” a corner of his mouth turning up. “Did you miss me this morning?”

“I did.”

“Well,” Sherlock begins casually, “we’ll just have to make up for that this afternoon.” He drops his voice low and lets it rumble from his throat, hiding his plush lips behind his sandwich. John’s eyes go wide and his face more serious than it has been since Greg left. “And tonight.”

“Damn it when you do that,” John groans. Sitting back in his chair and looking like the cat that got the cream, Sherlock chuckles deeply.

“We can go out as soon as lunch is finished, so don’t delay,” he quips. John grins and takes a bite of his own sandwich. The rest of lunch passes in companionable conversation about almost nothing at all. The two talk about any subject that enters their minds, laughing and telling stories, but both are more than ready to go out by the time they are washing up.

***

John and Sherlock continue to talk pleasantly as they walk to parts still unknown by the former. Sherlock occasionally gives in to the impulse to hold John’s hand. They enter a good-sized park, but instead of sitting on a bench or beneath a tree, they pass right through. To John’s surprise, Sherlock leads him to a large library. The duo take the elevator to the third floor and sit at a small reading table. Sitting across from one another, stacks all around, John raises his brows in silent question.

“This is my favorite library,” Sherlock explains in a quiet and reverent voice. “It isn’t the biggest or best in London, but they know me and are more than willing to get what I require in a timely fashion.”

“More friends?” John murmurs suspiciously. “I was told you didn’t have any friends. You’d better be careful or you’ll move up the ranks into moderately well-liked.”

Sherlock feigns horror and John laughs quietly.

“My god. What have I done?”

“Your reputation is completely ruined. I dunno what you’re going to do now.” He watches with a wide grin on his face as Sherlock removes a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his own forehead, puffing a breath from his lips.

“This is a disaster. I’ll never live this down,” he looks at John with a straight face, but his mouth soon quirks up at the edges. He puts the hanky back in his pocket and looks at John, slowly blinking his eyes. John’s eyes soften a bit. The detective lets his own gaze fall where John’s hands lay on the table and begins to trace around the short fingers. The doctor watches quietly for a moment, secretly marveling that Sherlock is in his life at all. He starts thinking about some of his favorite cases and some of their closest calls. Feeling a lump forming in his throat, he clears it and gives his head a little shake.

“So, what are we doing here, Sherlock?” he meets the detective’s eyes, filled with sudden excitement. “Is it for a case?”

“Well, no,” the detective answers, looking suddenly unsettled. 

“Oh. Okay.” The sparkle in his eyes fades a bit and his shoulders sag a little. Never in his life has Sherlock wished so much that something was for a case. He knows how excited John is to join him once again. As much as he is himself. They both miss the camaraderie and the thrill a case brings. Sherlock longs for the warmth of John by his side and the perspective he offers the Work. John wants the danger.

“John,” Sherlock clears his throat and squeezes his flatmate’s hands. “It won’t be long before you are able to rejoin me and I look forward to that day. I know it cannot come too fast for you.”

John shares a look with him, a soft smile, and squeezes back. Then he pulls his hands away and sits up straight, giving Sherlock a very ‘I’m Dr. Watson and I want to know your symptoms’ look. 

“All right then,” the small man says. “Tell me why we’re here.”

Sherlock clears his throat again, finding himself uncomfortable and nervous, but he hides it well. In fact, he is quite the picture of confidence and his voice only wavers ever so slightly when he speaks.

“Well, you cannot join me on cases as yet.”

“Right,” John wrinkles his brow and waits for more.

“And you enjoy reading a great deal. I thought you might need new reading material. I have read most everything in this section. We could talk when I’m home. About cases and books and... us.”

There is a moment of silence while the detective’s words sink in. Long enough that Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief when a wide smile spreads across his flatmate’s face and he reaches for his long fingers again.

“Sherlock Holmes, that is possibly the sweetest thing you have ever done,” John beams. Just like that, the detective frowns mightily and tries to reclaim his own fingers, but a giggling John keeps a strong grip on them. He looks so cuddly sitting there giggling. It makes maintaining a frown extremely difficult. However, the problem eases when John adds on, “You’re so sweet.”

“John,” Sherlock blinks slowly and looks at him with very serious eyes, “I don’t do sweet things. I don’t do anything that can be described as sweet.”

“Maybe you didn’t used to, but now…” with a playful smile. “You’ve turned over a new leaf.”

Sherlock continues to frown, narrows his eyes, and scrunches up his face a bit in exasperation. A quiet giggle passes through John’s lips and a downright wreckless thought enters his mind. Could he title one of his blogs ‘The Adorable Detective’ without being murdered by said detective? He can barely suppress a burst of laughter.

“John.” Sherlock’s expression has softened, his frown gone. John sobers just looking at his flatmate’s face. He looks so innocent and genuine, vulnerable. Sherlock closes his fingers around John’s, looks at their joined hands, and turns his gaze back to John. “John, there’s something I want to ask you.”

“Oh? What’s that then?”

Sherlock licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He is almost certain John will accept his proposal. He is most definitely certain of John’s feelings for him. But the words escape him as he stares at John with wide eyes. He never imagined such a simple question could be so terrifying or so difficult to ask.

“Would you…will you…” he stumbles over the words. John just smiles that cute half smile that borders on a smirk. That smile is criminal. His eyes are bright and expectant. “Would you…like to start with The Count of Monte Cristo?”

John’s eyes flicker. Sherlock watches him intently. It wasn’t disappointment that flashed in those deep blue eyes, he is certain of that, but John’s expression has not changed from what it was before the failed question and is, therefore, unreadable. Just as the detective is about to curse himself internally, John’s smile widens and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. Sherlock is understandably riveted. 

“I do,” the little doctor almost whispers. An uncontrollable shiver runs down the length of Sherlock’s spine, but John takes no notice and speaks again at a normal volume. “I’d love to. I’ve never read it. Is it one of your favorites?”

Letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, Sherlock smiles. A part of his mind wonders if John somehow knew what he had truly wanted to ask. He files it away in his mind palace for later. The tension drains from his body as he answers.

“It is. Would you like me to find it for you?”

“Yes, please,” he rises from his chair, slipping his hand from Sherlock’s. “I’ll just browse a bit in the meantime, shall I?”

Sherlock nods as he also rises. As soon as his back is turned, Sherlock rolls his eyes at himself and mutters quietly as he disappears into the stacks.

“Bloody brilliant work. For god sake.”

*******

That night, Sherlock sneaks sideways glances at John as they sit next to each other in bed. The doctor is a few chapters into The Count of Monte Cristo, but Sherlock can tell he is preoccupied. Based upon John’s tendency to distance himself from the detective and to avoid meeting his eyes after their return home, Sherlock is certain he can keep the secrets of his nightmares no longer.

He steeples his fingers beneath his chin and closes his eyes. The intensity and severity of his dreams have increased exponentially. It began while he was in captivity with Irene and he had hoped the new levels of horror would decrease once he returned to John’s side. However, that has not been the case. Thus far, he has been unable to determine the reason for the change. But that is not his concern tonight. Tonight he must tell John, once more, that Moriarty rules his dreams and he must tell John what Moriarty does in his dreams.

How? How can he tell him? How can he say it?

Outwardly, Sherlock’s brows furrow and a corner of his mouth twitches. Inwardly, his mind races, desperately looking for a solution, for the words to tell John what Moriarty wanted of him. What he takes from John in every nightmare. What Sherlock can never stop. His brows knit together fiercely as he berates his weakened mind. Has sentiment destroyed his faculties completely? He was determined that it would not be a disadvantage and that nothing would change. Certain they could make it the asset John believed and yet, here he is. Worried out of his mind about a dead man. A man who can no longer do harm to John Watson no matter how many nightmares Sherlock has.

Sherlock huffs in frustration and then opens his eyes wide when a hand brushes his arm. John is staring back with concern in his eyes, his book set aside. Sherlock lowers the fingers from beneath his chin and looks at John intently. His friend nods towards the bedside lamp and Sherlock notices that he has turned off his own. The detective nods back and switches it off. They both settle in under the covers. Sherlock doesn’t close his eyes, but doesn’t dare look at John.

“Sherlock?”

“What’s troubling you, John?”

There is a long pause. John swallows audibly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks in the dark and nearly turns his head to gape at the man lying next to him. That was not at all what he had expected. He blinks rapidly for a few seconds and gives John a sideways look with only his eyes.

“Sorry. What?”

Sherlock is startled by the sudden flurry of motion as John sits abruptly and flips his light back on. Sherlock sits up too and stares in both concern and utter confusion when John turns to face him. John wears many faces and makes no attempt at hiding a single one - worry, guilt, regret, deeply-felt concern and love. He bites his bottom lip as he meets his flatmate’s eyes.

“I’ve been concerned. I just… I wanted to know if you’d had nightmares like this before.”

“John,” Sherlock begins, still floundering in confusion.

“It’s classic post-traumatic stress…”

“Stress disorder. Yes, I know.” Sherlock studies John for a moment. John studies too and then sits up a little straighter, looking more determined.

“Something happened,” he says firmly. “Something happened between you and Moriarty.”

“And you asked Lestrade about it,” he supplies.

“Yes,” John winces, “and your brother.”

“WHAT?!” Sherlock’s face is a picture of fury. He points an accusatory finger at John and leans in quickly, only stopping when they are very, very close. “You told Mycroft about my nightmares?! For god sake, John! Why didn’t you just tell him I have a military kink?”

“I was worried!” John snaps back defensively. “I needed to know if this has happened before or if it’s unique to Moriarty.”

“God damn it,” Sherlock lurches backward, pulling at his hair with both hands. “It isn’t unique to him! It’s unique to you!”

Both men suddenly freeze. The room, the entire flat, is completely silent, save the sound of their heaving breaths. They look at one another with wide eyes. John’s mouth opens and closes once, and his brows furrow. His lips start to form words, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“I love you,” he stares with almost pleading eyes and then lowers them in something like shame. “He knew that.”

“And now, in these dreams, he tortures me?” John asks in a voice so quiet, so gentle.

Sherlock purses his lips and tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling in agony and closing his eyes. He thinks about all of the things Moriarty has said to him, in life and his dreams. He thinks about everything he has seen the man do to John in those dreams, hears every scream. It all flashes through his mind in seconds, called up from the inner dungeons of his mind palace. Buried away, but not forgotten, and never deleted. These are the places he keeps that which he is not allowed to delete.

Sherlock’s eyes are clenched shut as tightly as he can manage, but a tear falls from each one anyway. He is vaguely aware of a low, sad sound echoing through his own throat. This is the way he remains, lost in his own miserable memories until a warm hand just above his knee snaps his eyes open and his mind back to reality. He twists his neck briskly to see John watching him with what can only be called fear.

Sherlock turns closer to John and quickly lays a hand on either side of his face, his eyes pleading and wet. He rests his forehead against the smaller man’s, closing his eyes against the doctor’s expression, torn between fear and concern, only to see visions of him at the mercy of James Moriarty. The skin of his body torn, his face twisted in pain and horror. Sherlock’s eyes fly open again. His mouth opens too. Sherlock must tell him. He must tell John what is tearing at his soul before it rips him apart. 

He looks deeply into John’s eyes. He can tell John is saying something, but can’t hear it over the echo of Moriarty’s words in his mind. It is only the feeling of John’s strong hands grasping his biceps tightly that pulls him from where he has gone.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me? Are you all right?” John demands as his face comes back into focus. Sherlock blinks his eyes and sees that his own hands still cup John’s face. He strokes his thumbs over his cheeks.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” swallowing hard and looking into John’s eyes. “The dreams. He, he…”  _ Rape. Rape. Just say it. He can handle it.  _ Sherlock squints his eyes shut and swallows again. This time, he swallows his shame. “He tortures you.” Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, painfully, and rests them on John. “He tortures you so terribly and I can never stop him.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathes and pulls him into a comforting embrace. Over his shoulder, fresh tears stream down Sherlock’s cheeks and he turns his head away, ashamed of his own weakness. “I’ve learned some things since my army days. I think I can help you.”

“NO!” the detective jerks out of his arms violently. John stares in wide-eyed shock, fear dancing around the edges. “I don’t want your help! I can do this myself.”

“Sherlock…” John begins in disbelief, but the detective snaps his head up and glares down at the smaller man.

“I have one of the greatest minds in all of England and I can control it without the help of a weak-minded fool who can’t even get through the service without being shot!”

At that moment, that one terrible moment, John resists everything in his nature and beats back his fury. This isn’t Sherlock. It isn’t him saying these things, hating John. It’s the frustration and the pain. Greg is right. Sherlock Holmes can be an asshole, but not to John, never to John.

Working hard to keep calm, John stands his ground and fixes Sherlock with an expression hard as steel.

“Sherlock, look at me.” The raging detective complies without really thinking, locking his piercing silver eyes on John. “I’ve been out of the army for years now, and away from combat even longer. I still have bad nights. The danger is still very real to you. What happened between you and Moriarty deeply disturbed you, and it will take time to come to terms with it. I can help you. Please, let me help you.” John nearly begs. He watches as the detective fumes, but says nothing. And then he sighs heavily, as if the heaviest weight in the world is on his shoulders. “I know. I know it’s my own fault. I’m complicit in it. Look, if you don’t want my help, I understand.” 

“What?” All of the fury drains from Sherlock’s body in a millisecond, replaced by shock and sadness. The force of it vibrates through his chest like a surge of adrenaline, but it leaves him hollow instead of energized. “John, no! It wasn’t you. It’s not you. That’s not why…”

“You watched him kill me, Sherlock!” John interrupts. “And I let you believe it. I  **wanted** you to believe it. God only knows how you can even forgive me. Maybe you haven’t.”

“I have, and I have no regrets,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly. “You tricked me because it made perfect sense. It was the only way you could see to protect me. I would have done it myself had I been in your position.”

They stare at one another in silence, but it feels as though they are still talking. Sharing every thought, every feeling, assuring the other there is still trust where it was believed lost. John parts his lips and wets them with his tongue. He gives a little nod and purses his lips.

“All right. I’ll have to accept that,” he faces his flatmate full-on and scoots a little closer cautiously. “Your nightmares are the result of trauma and I would like to help you move beyond them. Will you let me help you?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch and looks at John with soft eyes. God, this precious man. He knits his brows and reaches for John’s waist, pulling him even closer.

“You promise?” his mouth curls slightly. “Even if I lose my temper?”

“I do,” John smiles in relief and wraps his arms around his detective.

For the second time, a shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine at the sound of those words, but this time, it is quickly followed by heat pooling in his belly. He leans in and kisses John gently. Then again with more force as they pull their bodies together tightly. With John’s fingers in his hair, Sherlock twists his tongue slowly around John’s until he can feel his doctor buzzing with the effort of not ripping his pajamas off.

Sherlock’s lips break from the smaller man’s, much to his protest, and travel along his jawline to his neck. When he stops, both men are breathing heavily, their pupils wide.

“A military kink, eh?” John asks mischievously. Sherlock barks out a laugh. 

“I confess I had hoped you would glaze over that bit.” 

“Never,” he shakes his head and nips at the taller man’s chin. Before they know what happened, they are both giggling uncontrollably. As their laughter starts to die down, John squirms his way out of Sherlock’s arms and turns of his lamp again. When he turns back, the detective flicks a grin at John and grabs the covers, pulling them up and snuggling down under their warmth. Cozy on his side, he casts his gaze at John, who is still sitting up straight and looking down at him with a meaningful expression. The faint moonlight shining in makes John’s face glow in the darkness.

“I’m sorry,” he says plainly before Sherlock can utter a word. “I should’ve just asked you about the dreams. I know how you value your privacy, especially from Mycroft. It wasn’t my place.”

“Do not think on it, John” he shakes his head. “You had the best of intentions. You always do. And I can be difficult. Quite likely, I would have said nothing.”

“Difficult? You?”

“Shut up.” 

John starts laughing even before Sherlock forces him onto his back and pins him to the bed, tickling him mercilessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everybody! Let me draw your attention to the number of chapters. It has increased to 10 and may just end up being 11 before I'm through. It sure is shaping up to be a great part in this series though. I'm so excited for all of you to read the rest!
> 
> That said, thank you again for all the support and well wishes AND great feedback. I appreciate it and value each and every one of you. How better to show my thanks than post another chapter right on the heels of this one. Watch for that to come before the weekend. Did I say before the weekend? That only leaves tomorrow. Ah!
> 
> Love, Jane


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, everyone, but now that I've started writing a bit of porn, I just can't stop.
> 
> Did I mention Mycroft is a meddling sod? Try utter bastard.
> 
> John finds out Sherlock went to Nepal to help Irene.

John smiles to himself as he sips tea. Having just shared a cuppa and lovely chat with Mrs. Hudson, before they realized the time and she had to dash off, John poured himself the last cup and has been deep in thought ever since. Three weeks have passed since their last confrontation about Sherlock’s nightmares. He and Sherlock have tried a few different tacts John has learned over time. The first week was hard to get through, but the last two have passed without event. John isn’t entirely sure if that is because there have been no nightmares or because Sherlock has managed not to wake him. Either way, John has every intention of discussing it when Sherlock returns from the case he’s working with Greg.

Speak of the devil, John hears the door to the building open and close. However, a glance at the clock tells him it can’t be Sherlock and the footsteps are too measured to be Mrs. Hudson. She had said something at tea about having fixed up 221C while he and Sherlock were away in hiding, but had also mentioned the bloke had left that morning for the weekend. Given the possibilities, there is only one person left who could gain access to the outer door of Baker Street. John almost sneers as Mycroft Holmes walks in the room.

“Afternoon, John. May I come in?”

“Mycroft,” John forces a smile, “please do. I’m sorry I can’t offer you any tea. Mrs. Hudson and I just finished the pot.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Of course not,” John says flatly. “Sherlock isn’t here. But I’m sure you know that.”

“Indeed. May I?” he gestures at the chair across from John.

“If you must.”

Mycroft sits gracefully, carefully hanging his umbrella on his chair’s armrest. He and the doctor lock eyes and observe one another silently for a moment before a slow smile spreads over Mycroft’s lips.

“I assume Sherlock has told you the circumstances of his recent captivity?”

“You’re just getting around to asking me now? It’s been three bloody weeks.”

“When you compelled me to seek out my brother, I was forced to place certain important matters aside,” he crosses his legs comfortably. “I completed my business and am now at liberty to become involved with your affairs once again.”

“Well, Sherlock and I are both thrilled by that,” John scowls. Mycroft’s smile flows smoothly into a smirk. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Sherlock has told you everything then?” he continues in a knowing tone that John doesn’t like at all.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t he?”

“Has he? Interesting,” the man ignores John’s question and gives him a false look of innocence. John cocks an eyebrow, his anger beginning to simmer. “I must compliment you, John. You are certainly very trusting in your relationship with Sherlock.”

“My relationship with… What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Oh, come now, John. You certainly aren’t naive.”

John can feel his temper rising and is positive that is exactly what the man wants, so he tamps it down.

“To be so willing to agree to Sherlock going on such a task alone. Anything could have happened.”

“He went to help a friend and I was in no position to go with him. Why would I say no?”

“A friend? Oh no, John,” Mycroft smiles slyly. “Not a friend. Irene Adler.”

In the silence that follows, John can feel the color in his face rising. The fact that Mycroft can see it and that his words have, no doubt, had the desired effect pisses John off almost as much as what the bastard just said to him. Irene Adler? Why the fuck didn’t Sherlock tell him that she was the ‘friend’ who asked for help? His blood boils hot, threatening his ability to form coherent thought and then e knows exactly why Sherlock said nothing. Jealousy.

“I see that I have overstayed my welcome,” Mycroft rises, barely able to contain his glee. Or, maybe not trying to hide it. “No bother. I must be on my way. Good day to you, John.”

John watches wordlessly as the elder Holmes leaves the room and then listens as he exits the flat. It sounds almost like the smug prick is skipping. Alone once again, John continues to sit in silence until his mobile sounds.

_ The case is finished. Starting home soon. -SH _

***

A couple of hours later, Sherlock and Greg arrive at the flat. Each man is carrying a bag full of takeaway. By the time they had caught a cab to Baker Street, it had been approaching dinnertime and Sherlock had insisted upon picking something up for John. Greg couldn’t help but grin, remembering how John had told him of the detective’s newly acquired domesticity.

Still talking about the case, the two men walk straight to the kitchen and pop the takeaway in the oven on low. They pass through into the dining area.

“You’ll find all the evidence you need in Fergeson’s apartment. The man is so convinced he will never be caught that he has concealed nothing. A true idiot hangs himself.”

“Right. Donovan will ring as soon as the search warrant comes through,” he glances back toward the hall door as he sits at the table. “Is John here?”

“Hm?” Sherlock frowns. “Of course, he’s here. He must be having a lie down.”

Greg opens his mouth to respond when they hear the door to the flat open and close. Sherlock’s expression goes grim and he heaves a long-suffering sigh. Mycroft Holmes enters the room shortly thereafter.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector. Brother mine.”

“Evening,” Greg replies with a nod.

“What do you want?” Sherlock demands. Mycroft cocks a brow and leans on his umbrella.

“Direct, as always, brother,” he smiles with an almost sinister look in his eye. Greg, looking quite confused, scratches his head and looks between the two men.

“Well?”

“I merely wanted to see how you are getting along after I pulled you and Miss Adler from that underground cell.”

“Miss Adler?” Greg repeats quietly, his brows shooting up into his hairline.

“Yes, thank you, Mycroft. As you can see, I am fine. Get out.”

“Indeed. You do seem to have come out unscathed. Always the lucky one,” Mycroft smirks. “But has John, I wonder?”

As if on cue, the distinctive sound of John walking down the hall from the bedroom meets their ears. He doesn’t even look at Mycroft and walks directly to Sherlock when he enters.

“John, we have takeaway keeping warm in the kitchen.”

John casts a side glance at Greg and nods just before punching the detective right in the face, knocking him to the floor. Greg jumps out of his chair and rushes to John’s side in case he decides to pounce, but the angry doctor completely ignores him. Sherlock is the one and only focus of John’s attention. He bends over the detective and grabs him by the lapels of his suit jacket. The detective’s added weight unexpectedly tips John’s balance and nearly pulls him over. Greg quickly steadies him.

“You bastard.”

“John, I can explain.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was her?” he shouts. Sherlock’s eyes widen with surprise and anger. He glances at Mycroft and then back to John. “Why did you lie to me?!”

“Steady on, John,” Greg tries to pull him away from his flatmate.

“Don’t worry, Inspector. All couples have their difficulties,” the elder Holmes flashes a scathing smile. Greg glares back at him. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Fuck off.” John and Sherlock say together, looking his way. Mycroft shrugs in feigned resignation. Greg shakes his head, his eyes still on Mycroft and a disgusted expression on his face. Meanwhile, John and Sherlock turn their attention back to each other.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John snarls. “Even after you got home, you didn’t say a word.”

“I wanted to tell you. I just…”

“Just what? Couldn’t trust me?! Your weak-minded, fool live-in who’s only good for one thing.”

Sherlock visibly flinches as his own words from weeks ago are thrown back in his face. His hands raise emphatically.

“NO! I would never think of you that way. I trust you, John.”

“Bullshit!”

“John,” Greg pulls at his shoulder, “let him up. Come on.”

With some resistance, Greg manages to disconnect the doctor from his detective long enough for the man to stand and face his accuser. The DI then adeptly makes excuses for both himself and Mycroft, and yanks the elder Holmes from the flat, leaving the flatmates alone.

John glares at Sherlock. Neither says a word. A drop of blood slips from a small laceration near Sherlock’s eye. John clenches his jaw, his deep blue eyes sparkling with fury.

“Come on,” he jerks his head and immediately walks out of the room. Sherlock follows him slowly to their bedroom and into the ensuite, where he is made to sit on the toilet while John rifles around in his med kit and tends to the detective’s eye. John works quickly and efficiently, but still hesitates and continues more gently whenever Sherlock winces.

“Tilt your head up,” he speaks sharply. Sherlock complies without a word. He looks at John’s eyes as he works. The small man is still hot with anger, but his eyes betray him, revealing his regret. His voice comes out quietly as he continues his work “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have hit you. I…you didn’t deserve it. No matter what you did or how I feel, you didn’t deserve it. No one does. It’s not a good way for me to deal with my anger.” 

His pained eyes meet Sherlock’s.

“No, it isn’t, John,” he replies firmly. “Don’t do it again.”

They look into one another’s eyes and each sees something familiar and comforting. A new understanding forms and is agreed upon silently. Sherlock gives John a little smile and John nods. He returns to cleaning Sherlock’s wound and the detective watches him with soulful silver eyes. As much as he would like to, he cannot use John’s mistake to avoid one of his own. He licks his lips and steels himself.

“I should have told you from the beginning, John.”

“Yes, you should have,” he glances at his flatmate.

“I wanted to spare you.”

“Spare me?” John stops his ministrations and huffs in frustration. “From what exactly? Worry? I would’ve worry either way.”

“Yes, but only for my safety,” Sherlock says, struggling to explain.

“And just what is  **that** supposed to mean?” John demands, crossing his arms. Sherlock looks back at him with hard eyes.

“Jealousy, John. I wanted to avoid your jealousy,” he snaps. John closes his eyes and then looks away, pursing his lips. Sherlock’s own temper flares. “And now I’ve slept with her.” 

John’s intense eyes pop open and his head twists to look at the detective, dismay written all over his face. The color in Sherlock’s cheeks rises and he continues coldly.

“What? That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

“No. That is not what I think, Sherlock,” John pronounces fiercely. He steps in close to get right in Sherlock’s business. The detective doesn’t back down and looks squarely into the doctor’s blazing blue eyes, challenging him. “I know you didn’t sleep with her. I trust  **you,** Sherlock. I  **do not** trust her.”

Sherlock steadies his eyes on John and suddenly sees that he has misinterpreted everything he read from John’s face in the last few minutes. John closed his eyes and looked away when Sherlock mentioned jealousy not in anger, but in pain. He might be angry that Sherlock lied to him, but he’s also hurt. Neither of them is perfect. They have both made mistakes. Sherlock has no desire to tell John everything that happened in that cell, but anything other than the truth would be yet another mistake.

“Irene did ask me,” he admits in soft voice. “She has always found me…intriguing, even if not her personal preference in a mate.” John’s shoulders are hard as rocks and he tries to relax them. Sherlock can tell he would like to look away, but won’t. “She kissed me,” he continues and John visibly flinches, “ and I put as much space between us as I could.”

John’s shoulders seem to relax minutely and his head tilts a fraction of an inch. While no one else would even notice or have any idea of its significance, Sherlock knows all too well. He quickly cups John’s face in his hands and wills all of his emotion into the small man through the contact. An electricity seems to travel between and all around them.

“I told her, in no uncertain terms, that I love you and I will never betray you. I am ever yours as you are mine, John. I did not tell you it was she I was going to help and I should have. I wanted to keep you from doubting me, but I should have trusted you. I made a mistake and I hurt you. I will do everything in my power to keep from repeating it.”

John is looking at him with soft eyes now. He bites his lower lip and then wets his upper quickly with his tongue. He reaches out hesitantly and touches a sharp cheekbone. 

“So will I,” John whispers solemnly. They remain this way for what feels like forever. Sherlock’s brow raises a touch when he sees John’s mouth quirk up. His surgeon’s fingers slide off the detective’s face and then lift an ice pack into view. “Now, hold this on your eye.”

***

When the duo strolls out to the kitchen, Sherlock convinces John that he should be allowed to dispense with the ice pack until they have finished eating the Chinese takeaway, which is delicious. As promised, the pack is on the detective’s eye again as soon as they are settled on the sofa for the evening. Sherlock grumbles.

“Stop complaining, Sherlock. You want to keep the swelling down, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” he mutters impatiently. “I am well aware of the effects an ice pack has on human tissue.”

John smirks and keeps his eyes on the telly. A few minutes later, another song begins. John shakes his head slowly. 

“I still can’t believe how much you like this.”

“I have explained why on many occasions.”

“You’ve explained once and this is a kid’s movie, Sherlock. A cartoon.”

“I believe the term is animated film.”

“Is it because the sisters make up in the end?” John teases. “Do you secretly long to reconnect with Mycroft?”

Sherlock lowers the ice pack, turns his head slowly, and looks at John dull eyes.

“John Watson, do you even know me at all? I have no desire to reconnect with my brother. We were never connected to begin with.”

“Whatever you say,” John smirks.

Sherlock raises a brow and stares down his flatmate. John glances at him once or twice, but says nothing. The detective’s eyes shift to the telly and then come to rest on John once more. His indignant expression melts away into a sly one. He leans toward John slowly. His new proximity sends tingles up John’s spine and he can’t help but turn his head to look at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, what are you plotting?”

The detective smiles seductively and slithers a hand to the inside of John’s thigh, watching as John’s pupils grow wider. 

“You’re right, John. You are.” His breath is on John’s face. His warmth close enough to burn. John’s thigh feels hot where Sherlock’s hand touches it. Sherlock’s smile grows when John fails to stop himself from involuntarily inhaling the detective’s scent deeply. John blinks and pulls back a little, but his clever mate only closes the distance again and whispers. “There is a reason I like this film so much.” 

John blows out an unsteady breath. Sherlock’s face is so close, dangerously close. His fingers squeeze John’s thigh gently and he breathes words into the electrified air around them.

“I want to win the sexy blonde in the end too.” He surges forward and seals his mouth over John’s, making quick work of parting John’s soft lips. He leans into John and plunders his mouth enthusiastically, gliding his tongue over every surface it can reach. The detective’s sheer force is enough to push John flat onto the sofa. He pulls Sherlock over with him and their hands begin to roam somewhat frantically. 

All too soon, John pushes Sherlock up so he’s staring down at the compact man. John smiles hotly up at him, pulling Sherlock’s magically unbuttoned shirt open and running his hands down Sherlock’s newly exposed body.

“Bed. Now.” 

“God, yes.”

Sherlock smiles like a Cheshire cat and stands, pulling John with him and right into his arms. They resume kissing heatedly as he lifts the doctor off his feet and begins walking to their bedroom.

“Sherlock…(kiss)…you have to stop…(lick)…carrying me around…(nibble)…like this.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock smiles against John’s lips and walks through the bedroom door.

***

Sherlock opens heavy eyes and smiles. The first thought in his mind is his flatmate. After carrying John to their bedroom, they had absolutely mind-blowing sex and then fell asleep in each other’s arms. Sherlock inhales deeply and stretches luxuriously, but finds no one in the bed with him when he rolls over to greet his John. He quickly climbs off the bed and turns for the door, coming face to face with James Moriarty.

“Where is John?” he demands without preamble.

“He wants to be with me.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t he?”

“What have you done with him?”

“He’s mine.”

“Where. Is. He.”

“He belongs to me, Sherrrrlock,” Moriarty cackles and licks his lips. “He’s mine. In every way.”

“Tell me where he is!”

“I’ll give him your regards tonight.”

“WHERE IS HE?!”

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” Moriarty smiles and turns away. Sherlock snarls and rushes forward, unable to contain his fury any longer. Suddenly they are facing each other again on a high cliff and there is a gun in Sherlock’s hand, which he levels at Moriarty’s head. Thunder claps and lightning strikes all around them. A strong wind blows Sherlock’s curls into a mad frenzy about his face. Moriarty grins at him like a skull, his eyes darker than ever.

“Do it, Sherlock. You’ll never find him if I’m dead,” he hisses. “Do you think he’ll shout your name or mine when I fuck him?”

“NO!”

Sherlock pulls the trigger again and again, watching Moriarty’s body dance before him. He keeps firing long after the gun is empty and Moriarty’s body has fallen to the floor. Sherlock drops to his knees and buries his face in his hands. The gun has vanished. Tears stream down his face. His emotions are uncontrollable. His heart and his head are near bursting. He opens his eyes again and, to his horror, John lays dead on the ground before him.

Sherlock wakes with a scream and thrashing violently in bed, the sheets twisting around his legs. There are hands grasping at his arms and a voice echoes through the haze of terror. The detective strikes out and knocks his attacker to the floor with a thud.

“Jesus!” John’s voice is suddenly very clear in the room. Sherlock scrambles for the edge of the bed and looks down at him.

“John?! Shit!”

John sits up, clearly in pain from his leg and pulling gingerly at his left shoulder. Sherlock dives off the bed and lands close to his doctor. John pushes himself away from Sherlock as quickly as he can with the impediment of his cast, uncertain whether the detective intends to help him or punch him. Then he freezes, as if just realizing movement might attract more attention from the crazed man sharing his bed. Sherlock licks his lips and moves very slowly, holding out his hands in placation. John does his best to inch away from him, stopping only when his back bumps up against the side of the bed.

“It’s okay. I’m awake. I’m awake!” Sherlock insists.

John looks at him for a few seconds, blinking his wide eyes. A drop of blood slowly trickles from his nose. He leans forward a little, his eyes boring into Sherlock’s. Finally satisfied with what he sees, John’s shoulders relax a bit and he leans back against the bed again, letting out a long breath and touching a hand to his nose. Sherlock stands silently and leaves the room, returning a moment later with a damp flannel. He sits down facing John and dabs at his nose gently, then gives it to John so he can hold it over the nostril until the bleeding stops. Sherlock’s hands are shaking. He balls them into fists and leaps off the floor to pace in front of his doctor like a caged animal.

“It’s okay, Sherlock.”

“It is  **not** okay! I don’t want to hurt you any more than you want to hurt me and these fucking…” he cuts himself off and stops his feet in front of John. “Is your leg all right?”

John waves him off and sighs, dropping his empty hand to the floor.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock inhales deeply and looks down at his own feet.

“The nightmares. I’m usually so frightened that he’ll hurt you. What he’ll do to you,” he lifts his eyes. “But this time I was so angry. He was taunting me.”

“Was I there?”

“No. At least, not until the end.”

“Maybe that’s why you were angry instead of scared,” John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off, dropping to his knees and pleading more than speaking. 

“You were dead, John, and I killed you myself. I killed you!” A cascade of tears streams from his eyes like a damn bursting open. His hands tremble. He doesn’t know what to do with them, doesn’t know what to say or think or feel, besides terror. A cold terror that envelops him and eats at his soul.

“Sherlock.” 

John’s voice cuts through his thoughts, his fear, everything, and Sherlock feels warm hands on his shoulders. He looks deeply into his doctor’s eyes. John gently strokes away the tears with his thumbs. Every inch of his body exudes comfort and warmth, and it quickly guides Sherlock to a safe place. He takes the doctor’s smaller hands in his own.

“He cannot be allowed to hurt you, John. He cannot touch you.”

“He won’t. Sherlock, he won’t. He’s dead. We’re safe.”

“I know. I just…” he looks away and back again. “I want to do everything I can to protect you from whatever it is he represents in my mind. Even if it’s myself.”

“Sherlock, it is not you. The fear is trying to manipulate you. You would never hurt me.”

“Wouldn’t I? I just did.”

“No,” John says firmly. “You woke up scared out of your mind. You didn’t know what you were doing.” He sighs and raises his brows, touching his fingers to Sherlock’s chin. And lifting it. “It’s going to take time, but it will be fine. I promise you that. I will not stop trying to help until this is over. And we’ll always…”

Sherlock suddenly presses up against John and covers his lips in an open-mouthed kiss. It is searing and full of emotion. Every emotion the detective has in his heart. John gasps for breath when they part and looks at Sherlock in surprise.

“Come on,” he angles his head toward the bed. “Come sleep with me.”

***

“I want to spend my life with you.” Sherlock is smiling and toying with John’s fingers. He feels warm and safe sitting in between John’s legs. He is careful not to put any weight on John’s casted leg as he pulls those muscular arms around his own body and presses back into John’s chest. He feels a quick breath at his ear when John lets out a short laugh.

“You already are.”

“I want it to mean everything to you. To both of us.”

“It already does, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” Sherlock releases John’s arms and twists around just enough to face him. “To you?”

John’s lips turn up into the sweetest smile and answers in a tone just above a whisper. Barely audible, even in the silence around them.

“Yes.” 

With that word, the detective crawls onto his hands and knees, planting his hands on either side of John’s body. He swoops in close and kisses John soundly. Their lips meet gently, hot and full of desire. After god knows how long, Sherlock holds tight to a shoulder and hip, and rolls until his back rests on the mattress and John’s body rests on his own. His hands slide to the small of John’s back and pull him close. The doctor’s hands are tangled in Sherlock’s dark curls, his lips still on the detective’s.

When John parts his own lips against Sherlock’s insistent tongue, the detective dives in. Showing no mercy, he licks into his mouth eagerly. His tongue dances lightly over John’s teeth, tongue, and lips. It dips in suggestively and tickles the roof of John’s mouth with its tip. John makes a soft strangling noise, so Sherlock backs off, but keeps his mouth close to John’s. The doctor giggles against Sherlock’s lips. The detective tightly grips John’s hips and bucks his own against them. John props himself just enough to look into Sherlock’s black eyes.

“Ride me, John.”

Separating only long enough to undress and grab the lube, the two men dive back into bed and wrap themselves together again. Sherlock quickly, but luxuriously prepares John and then coats his own hardened cock. Now ready, both men stop and look at one another tenderly.

“Sherlock,” John utters the name breathlessly. Sherlock puts his hands on John’s hips and gives them a gentle squeeze.

“John” he whispers. John raises his body and holds himself over Sherlock carefully while his flatmate positions his own erection beneath. His lover begins to lower his body. Sherlock watches as he slowly disappears into John and gasps suddenly, closing his eyes to keep from coming at just the sight.

When John’s body rests fully on Sherlock’s, the detective opens his eyes and reaches for the doctor’s neck. He pulls him down forcefully and crashes their mouths together, bucking his hips hard against John, hoping to god the impulse to do so hasn’t hurt him. He needn’t have worried. 

John begins at a fevered pace that Sherlock matches immediately. The two men mouth each other’s necks and ears and jaws. Never letting up until John’s movements become jerky and erratic. Sherlock digs his fingers into John’s perfectly round cheeks and pulls him hard as he thrusts deeply. John comes between them as if on command, completely untouched. He cries out and uses his arms to lift his body and change the angle. Sherlock immediately sees stars and he thrusts fiercely twice more before his body stiffens and he comes like a rocket into John, who cries out Sherlock’s name.

As the two ride it out, their bodies slowly begin to relax. John suddenly goes limp. Sherlock rolls them onto their sides and cups John’s face in his hands, worry lines on his own.

“John? John?” He can tell easily that the doctor is breathing, but feels exponentially better when John’s eyes open and meet his own. John smiles, breathing heavily.

“Sher…Sherlock.”

“Are you all right?” the detective asks with a relieved smile. John blinks and lets out a quick puff of air.

“Fine. Just old,” he pauses for a few breaths. “I’m getting old.”

Sherlock smiles at his doctor and kisses him softly.

“You’re only three years older than I am, John.”

“Show off,” John dips his chin and smiles. Sherlock laughs and snuggles the smaller man to his chest. John’s breathing deepens in sleep almost in seconds. Sherlock rests his chin on John’s cheekbone and holds him close until he, too, falls into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your chapter before the weekend, as promised. I don't know what time it is where all of you are, but it isn't quite midnight here so this totally counts. i hope you like this one. A a couple of parts really tugged at my heart strings. I think you know which ones. 
> 
> I haven't changed the chapter count yet, but I'm certain it will be at least 11 now. I'll obviously let you all know if that changes. 
> 
> Hope you all keep lovin' this and stick around for the end of Part 2.  
> Loves and hugs.  
> Jane


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gavin? Gaston? Garrett? Greg. His name is Greg.  
> Sherlock asks John on another walk with the intention to propose. Who should stumble upon them? What man has tried to block Sherlock's every attempt thus far? I think you know.
> 
> Later, John has a surprise for Sherlock.... A little less conversation, a little more action.  
> (infamous brow waggle)

A few weeks pass. The detective and his blogger spend as much time together as they can, but Greg has had a steady stream of cases and John has found himself going to sleep alone most of the time. He tries to be discouraged and he misses his detective dearly. Not that he’s mentioned it to Sherlock. Truth be told, John feels ridiculous saying it out loud. He’s a grown man who has endured a war, for christ sake, and it’s not like Sherlock is gone for days. He comes home every night and slips under the covers, so John can wake up with him. In spite of all Sherlock’s efforts, John still finds himself looking sadly at his side of the bed every night.

As if he noticed, even without John uttering a word, Sherlock made sure to finish his last case early the previous evening. Not only could they go to sleep together, they awoke together in the morning, and both are more than a little pleased. They go about the daily routine they haven’t been able to do for so long, culminating in the surprise of Sherlock helping with breakfast. They exchange quick kisses and lingering touches as they work on eggs and toast. Sherlock even eats without argument. Each man reads over a newspaper while eating, their calves gently rubbing together under the table.

Sherlock’s eyes keep drifting from the words on the paper to peek at John over its pages. John shifts his gaze to look at Sherlock, who quickly averts his eyes. John purses his lips and rolls his own eyes back down to the paper. He reads another paragraph before noticing that his flatmate is watching him again. John lowers his paper.

“Something on your mind, Sherlock?”

“No.”

John looks at him with a doubtful expression and then resumes reading his newspaper. At least ten minutes pass before he feels Sherlock’s eyes again. John lets it go for another five minutes or so, then folds his paper and puts it on the table. Sherlock continues to watch him as he sips from his tea cup. Neither man utters a word and John is about to chastise his flatmate for his behavior, but stops himself. For the first time, he takes notice of the face that goes along with Sherlock’s inquisitive eyes. He is looking at John fondly and not at all with one of his “I’m about to experiment on you” looks.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sits up straight and takes his elbows off the table.

“I don’t know what you mean, John.” Sherlock is the picture of innocence as he sips from his own teacup. John places his cup on its saucer and looks intently at Sherlock with one of the detective’s favorite cataloged expressions. John Watson Number 483: Adorable determination with a touch of warning in the eyes.

“Yes, you do. Now, out with it. What are you plotting for us?”

**“I** am not plotting anything, John Watson, and I deeply resent the implication,” he replies indignantly.

“Bollocks,” John quips. Sherlock pouts. “Did Greg call with a case?”

“Who?” the detective frowns.

“Greg,” John repeats, an expression of disbelief on his face. “Lestrade.”

“Oh. No, his name is Graham.”

“It’s Greg.”

“No, Grant? Definitely Grant.”

”My god, Sherlock,” John is incredulous and gaping. “How long have you known him now? His name is Greg.”

Sherlock leans back in his chair, lips pursed, and face in a deep frown as he considers John’s words. He quickly shakes it off and refocuses on the doctor.

“No, Lestrade has not yet contacted me this morning. Actually, I hoped we could go for a walk,” he pauses nervously. “I know we haven’t been to the library much with all the cases and such, but I thought just a walk through the park would be nice. Are you up for an outing?”

“A walk in the park? Hmm,” John holds a finger to his mouth a if considering it carefully. He cracks a wide smile. “I’d love to.” 

Sherlock’s lips curl into a small smile and his eyes soften. Then he shrugs and teases his doctor.

“Well, it is just a walk in the park. Nothing special.”

“I’ll just clean all this up and put it in the kitchen,” John laughs, but Sherlock leaps out of his chair and starts stacking the dishes.

“No. No, I’ll do it.” 

“You? Alone?” John feigns shock.

“You make it sound as though I have never cleaned up after a meal,” his flatmate huffs. John cocks a brow.

“Have you?”

Sherlock looks decidedly unamused. He picks up the dishes and walks into the kitchen. He returns with a tray for the tea things and hurries John along. Soon they are both wearing their coats and walking on the pavement of Baker Street. When they arrive at the park a little while later, Sherlock guides them west. The two men talk about Sherlock’s most recent case as they go, a locked room mystery. A man found dead in a hotel room. All doors and windows were locked, including the balcony doors. The man must have known he was in danger because he had propped a chair under the knob of the room door. 

In the end, the killer had entered the room long before the doors and windows were secured. The man’s business partner, disguised as a maid, had gained access hours earlier and rigged a gun in a cabinet in the loo. With all the towels and flannels inside it, she knew the man would open it when he took his regular before-bed bath. The gun was rigged to break free of its bonds and fall to the floor so as to look like the killer threw it there after the shooting. Sherlock goes on to explain various pieces of evidence that led him not only to the method of murder, but also the killer. When he has finished, John shakes his head slowly in awe.

“That is brilliant, Sherlock. Just brilliant. God, I miss it.”

Sherlock’s cheeks pink up a little and his hand brushes John’s, taking hold of his warm fingers.

“Your time in the walking cast is drawing to a close, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Then we do not have long to wait.” He looks down at John and shrugs. “I miss you too.”

They walk in silence for some time. Sherlock continues to hold John’s hand in his and keeps looking down at his feet nervously. He licks his lips and starts to gather his courage. He has let so many perfect moments pass by. He cannot let this one slide by as well. Unfortunately, John begins speaking before Sherlock has the chance.

“So, couple nights ago I grabbed your mobile when you were in the shower, yeah? I was thinking about when you were in that dungeon with Irene and thought if we sync our mobiles, we could use GPS to track each other. I mean, it might not have worked anyway because you were overseas, but in future…”

“Yes, yes, fine,” he interrupts impatiently. “John, I wanted to take this walk for a reason. I want to talk with you.”

“We are talking.”

“Yes, but,” Sherlock stops and turns to face him, treading on pins and needles. “I have something particular I would like to ask you.”

John lets loose a good-natured giggle and then tries to school his expression when he sees Sherlock’s face.

“‘Something particular’. What are we, in a Jane Austen novel?” John giggles again as Sherlock gives him a long-suffering look, but his cheeks are scarlet with embarrassment.

“I despair at you sometimes, John.”

“Right. Sorry,” John apologizes, straightening and clearing his throat. “Uh, you were saying?”

“John, I think you know you mean a great deal to me.”

“You think?” a giggle slips passed his lips. Sherlock gives him another long-suffering look mixed with sheer annoyance. John dips his chin and lowers his eyes, then raises them again to meet Sherlock’s timidly. “Sorry.”

Sherlock tilts his head, giving the doctor a look of endearment. His eyes soften, along with all of his sharp edges. He takes John’s hands in his own and gazes straight into his deep blue eyes.

“John, I love you. I have since the day we met. I would very much like to spend my whole life with you as something…more.” He clears his throat, his confidence waning. “More than friends.” 

“Are we only friends?”

“Sherlock. John. How coincidental that I should find you here.”

Mycroft is suddenly next to them with that tiresome, smug smile on his face. Sherlock drops John’s hands and turns toward his brother.

“Hello, Mycroft. How are you?” John exclaims in mock cheerfulness. “Intruding, as always, I see.”

“Charming to the last.”

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks through clenched teeth. Mycroft glances at him and then looks back to his flatmate.

“John, I wonder if you would excuse my brother and I. It’s very urgent.”

“Isn’t it always,” John remarks sarcastically and eventually looks at Sherlock. “I’d so hate to be in your way. Saving queen and country and all. I’ll see you back the flat.”

Sherlock nods and can’t help but smirk when he sees Mycroft’s mighty frown. He watches until his doctor is some distance away and then faces the elder Holmes with a grim expression.

“There had better be a good reason,” he fumes.

“Please tell me were not about to propose marriage to John Watson.”

Sherlock levels his gaze at Mycroft and narrows his eyes, his expression one of utter disdain.

“Fuck off.”

“Still on form, are we?” Mycroft sighs. Sherlock lowers his voice and steps toward his brother.

“I have told you not to interfere. I do not see why I must continually repeat myself.” He glares fiercely and adds a threat to his tone. “You have abandoned feeling and emotion, and have encouraged me to do the same. It served me well for a time, but I cannot, I  **will not** close myself off to John. He is worth all the joy and the pain.”

Mycroft shakes his head, looks away, and then back at Sherlock. He looks about to speak, so Sherlock doesn’t allow him the opportunity. He has no desire to endure one more word of Mycroft’s drivel.

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

With that, Sherlock turns on his heel in the direction of Baker Street. He knows full well his brother will forever intrude in his life, much as he tries to deter him. His only hope is that John will not be driven from his side. Whether or not Mycroft can ever comprehend the nature of Sherlock’s connection with John will never cloud what Sherlock knows in his heart. They are two parts of the same soul and Sherlock will do whatever is required to wrap his fingers around the other part and never let go.

***

Sherlock sits at his desk. He is staring at his laptop, but does not see the words before him. He is researching a case, as he has done for several cases over the last fifteen days. Although he has solved them all quite successfully, his mind has not truly been on any of them. His thoughts continually stray back to the park with John and his failed proposal attempt. He had expected the doctor to inquire into the matter when he got home, but John said not a word. Instead, he had started dinner. He had smiled when Sherlock wrapped his arms around the man’s waist and held him close while he stirred the sauce. He had leaned back into Sherlock’s arms, rested against his chest. The detective had bent his head over John’s shoulder and chastely pressed his lips to John’s neck again and again. Dinner was quiet and perfect, and they fell asleep talking and laughing in each other’s arms.

Sherlock’s eyes come into focus on the laptop screen, but he still doesn’t read. He curses loudly instead. Why didn’t he propose that night during dinner or while they were talking? Or since then? It isn’t for lack of desire or a question of his feelings. Sherlock has never wanted anything more in his life. He curses again.

“Bad Day?”

The detective looks up and stares at his doctor, utterly speechless. John Watson stands before him solidly with no cast on his leg. John takes a few steps forward and hesitates, a brilliant smile on his face.

“What do you think?” he does a little turn with a silly grin on his face. “Just came from getting it off. I thought I’d surprise you.”

Sherlock swallows hard. His mouth is suddenly dry.

“You have.” His mouth opens and closes a few times before he finds his voice again. When he speaks, his words are deep and rumbling. The most odd and honest statement floats from his mouth. “This doesn’t feel real.”

“I can safely say that it is,” John takes a few steps toward the desk. Sherlock’s eyes travel down John’s body slowly and back up again. His lips spread into a very cute smile.

“Come here. Come here this instant.”

John slinks over and sits down on the desk, right in front of his delighted detective. The small man wears an amused grin, but has a hunger in his eyes that cannot be denied.

Sherlock stands and leans in close to John, his body sliding between his open legs. He whispers a breath over John’s lips. The doctor noticeably shivers. He traces his fingers up Sherlock’s arms to rest on his shoulders and grasps his shirt lapels. With a low chuckle, he pulls Sherlock’s mouth to his. The kiss is soft and sweet, despite the electric excitement flowing through their bodies.

After a moment, John feels long, gentle fingers in his hair and fingernails scraping lightly along his scalp. A delicious tingle begins at the base of his spine and inches its way up, leaving a warm feeling in his belly as it goes. He moves his hips forward on the desk until he feels them stop against Sherlock’s. He gives a little thrust, rubbing the bulge in his trousers against the one in Sherlock’s. The detective moans into John’s mouth and parts his lips, his tongue seeking the warmth of John’s soft lips. He licks along that luxurious lower lip, even as it parts from its mate and John’s tongue twirls at his teeth.

The fingers in John’s hair clamp down swiftly and draw him closer, his adorable little nose smushing against Sherlock’s angular one. Their tongues slide over and around each other slowly. John flicks his against Sherlock’s upper teeth and then traces them with its tip. He feels the tip of Sherlock’s tongue respond in kind, dancing on the underside of his own. The movement somehow tickles and John cannot suppress a fit of giggles. He pulls back suddenly, one hand over his own mouth and looks at his detective with smiling, but surprised eyes.

“You bastard,” John murmurs from behind his own fingers.

“Ah, another ticklish spot,” the detective narrows his eyes and grins. “One quite unexpected, I might add. I obviously need to exploit it now.”

John kicks his leg lightly and Sherlock laughs. He smiles fondly for a moment, his eyes searching John’s dark blues. He takes John’s hands in his own and spreads the man’s arms out wide, stepping back and looking John over as he does it. The doctor quirks a somewhat embarrassed smile at him, a question in his eyes.

“John Watson. You. Are. Gorgeous.”

John bends his head down at the praise, his cheeks immediately scarlet. He tilts it up again to meet Sherlock’s eyes somewhat timidly.

“At least you didn’t say adorable.”

Recognizing the joke, Sherlock affects an expression of mock thought.

“Hmm. Now that you mention it…” John huffs out a laugh and starts to respond, but Sherlock stops him, quickly covering his mouth with his own. It’s a searing kiss and both men are breathless when they part. Sherlock rests his forehead against John’s and sighs between heavy breaths.

“You are absolutely the sexist thing on two legs.”

“That more accurately describes you,” John snorts. “Hands down. No debate.”

Sherlock pulls away slightly and looks into John’s eyes with longing. He licks his lips and speaks in a quiet, but intense voice.

“John, will you accompany me to the bedroom? Would you… **walk** with me?”  

John swallows hard and replies in a whisper of desire.

“Oh, god yes.”

The two men join hands and stroll to the bedroom where they slowly remove the other’s clothing. Each area exposed is new skin to be kissed, licked, nibbled, mouthed. It is beautiful, sensual, oddly relaxing in spite of building tension, and also agonizing. Both believe it to be the slowest burn ever in their relationship and either one could come with one touch by the time all of their clothes are on the floor. 

Eyes locked on each other, they climb onto the bed. Sherlock catches John’s arm and pulls him close, their lips crashing together. The detective’s tongue is stroking inside John’s mouth before he can even react. All he can do is wrap his arms around the taller man and hold on tight, giving as good as he receives. Sherlock can feel his doctor melting in his arms.

Both lose themselves completely. Minds go blank, filled with nothing but mouths and tongues. Hands roaming over every gorgeous inch. Hips rutting and rubbing until John is suddenly wrenched back to reality by his own shattering orgasm. Everything comes back to bear, its intensity and pleasure a shock to his system. He hears himself shout loudly. His hands are clawing at Sherlock’s long, lean body. His hips are jerking and thrusting at his flatmate, who meets him hard each time, their cocks rubbing together forcefully.

When Sherlock comes, John can literally see the stars in his eyes as he moans out his release. They continue to collide into each other messily until they finally begin to slow down and surrender to the need to breathe. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his mouth is smiling in utter pleasure.

“Christ, Sherlock. That wasn’t quite how I thought it would go.”

Sherlock opens his eyes to see the sweat dripping down his lover’s brow, a smile on his face as he breathes heavily and gazes back at his detective. John pushes a wet curl from Sherlock’s forehead. His hand lingers at Sherlock’s ear.

“Indeed,” he agrees, “but it was amazing.”

“Without a doubt,” John huffs out a breathless laugh and rests his head on a pillow. He moves his hand from Sherlock’s head and drops it down to the protruding bone of his hip, his fingers lying lazily on the man’s bum. Sherlock kisses him softly. He feels so content, so happy. More than ever before. He runs a hand through John’s hair and sighs, affecting a look of concern.

“I don’t know how I shall cope now that your leg has healed.”

John giggles and kisses his detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to draw everyone's attention to the chapter count. Yes, it is 11, and that means there's only one chapter left. AH! What will happen to our intrepid duo?? Lol. I feel in a very over-dramatic soap opera kind of mood, like I should ask leading questions about what will happen to each character. :)
> 
> Thank you all for reading and loving. You all mean so much to me. I love writing. I'd write no matter what, but knowing that I'm bringing joy to others is the greatest reward. Thank you all.
> 
> On that note, I expect I'll release the last chapter tomorrow or the next day. Work on Part 3 is about to begin! I'll get it up as soon as I'm able. 
> 
> I wish you all love and happiness (and damn good Johnlock). ;)  
> Jane


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets his comeuppance?  
> Trouble at Molly's lab.
> 
> Sorry, friends, can't say anymore. Just read on, Macduff!

The lab in St. Bart’s is immaculate, as usual. Molly Hooper is bent over a microscope looking at a slide intently when the lab door opens and Sherlock Holmes strides in. She looks up with nervous expectation and then sees John Watson enter behind the detective. In an instant, her face brightens and a smile beams at the short doctor. Molly rushes forward and embraces him.

“John! It’s so good to see you! And without the cast even.”

“It is definitely good to be without it.”

“You look great.”

“Yes, yes, good, fine,” Sherlock interrupts impatiently. “I require your assistance.”

He pushes past her and begins to work. John’s palm launches to his forehead in exasperation as Molly’s brows arch. Fortunately, she more or less ignores Sherlock’s behavior.

“First case back?” she asks John with the same brilliant smile.

“Yeah,” he looks at her, glances at Sherlock, and back to her. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she smirks. “I’m glad you’re back at it. He’s been intolerable without you.”

John barely stifles a laugh as Sherlock’s head snaps up. He fixes Molly with a judgy but curious look.

“You have developed a certain amount of cheek while John has been in recovery.”

“Oh, have I?” she feigns innocence.

“You have.”

Instead of responding directly to Sherlock’s remark, Molly grins at John knowingly and takes a few slow steps toward the counter against the wall behind them. She nods to the materials on the counter where Sherlock is working.

“You’ll be needing the centrifuge then?”

Sherlock blinks at her.

“Yes.”

“I’ll get things ready then, shall I?”

Both men watch in wonder as she walks over to the piece of equipment and begins to prepare it for use. Sherlock’s lips quirk up.

“It suits you.”

Molly smiles. Her shoulders pull back a tick and her chin lifts slightly.

“Thanks.”

Sherlock returns his attention to the different substances on the counter while John takes in everything he just witnessed. There is definitely something different about Molly. If he didn’t know better, John would think a boyfriend, but it is clearly something more. Something that whispers not so quietly that she believes her knowledge and expertise, while not as vast as Sherlock’s, are just as valuable.

Approximately four hours later, the trio is still in the lab awaiting results on the last of the crime scene samples. While John and Molly carry on pleasant conversation, catching up from the time apart, the detective paces restlessly.

“Really? Just that long?” John asks in surprise.

“Yeah, but it seems longer,” she replies, biting her lip in excitement.

“So, Molly, I can’t help but notice a certain skip in your step and now I’m dying to know. Is there…someone new in your life?”

“Well, actually…”

“Oh, for god sake. This is intolerable!”

John and Molly look at the pacing detective and then glance at one another. As if on cue, Sherlock’s mobile begins ringing. He ignores it.

“Sherlock, why don’t you answer that?” John suggests with a smile in his voice. “It’s been ringing non-stop for the last thirty minutes at least.”

“Oh, at least,” Molly adds. 

Sherlock comes to a stand-still before them, glaring.

“An hour. And I am not going to answer it. It’s Mycroft.”

John puts his hands on his hips and gives Sherlock his John Watson Expression Number 10: ‘Seriously? You’re doing this now?’. Molly looks between them in confusion.

“Sorry, why won’t you answer it?”

“I’m on a case, Molly. There is nothing Mycroft could possibly tell me that is more important.” 

“And he avoids talking to him at all costs,” John supplies.

“ALL costs,” his eyes widen for emphasis.

“But he’s your brother.”

“And now he’s ringing me,” John looks at his own chiming mobile. “Answer your bloody phone.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes as his mobile sounds again. He turns away from them and brings the phone to his ear.

“I’m on a case.”

“Sherlock, at last. How good of you to finally answer. Make sure to thank John for me.” Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards at the sound of Mycroft’s irritation. “I need you to come to my office. We must discuss a matter of the greatest importance.”

“Something so important that you can’t be bothered to get off your ass and find me,” Sherlock articulates sarcastically. “Must be vital to my very survival.”

“Sherlock…”

“I. Am on. A case.”

A moment of silence follows. Sherlock smiles, feeling very satisfied with himself, only for it to fade into a frown at Mycroft’s next words.

“It concerns Dr. Watson and is not something I wish to discuss on unsecured channels.”

“I’m on my way.”

Sherlock ends the call and twirls to face Molly and his flatmate while replacing the mobile in his pocket. Molly stops mid-sentence and raises her brows, expecting him to interrupt. John crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m going to see Mycroft, but I’ll be back.”

John’s mouth falls open.

“You’re going to see Mycroft?”

“Yes, that is what I said, John,” he takes two steps toward the door and then pauses, rethinking the harshness of his tone. He turns around and says in a kinder voice. “I’ll be back soon.”

“You don’t want me come along?”

“No! No. It’s nothing. It won’t take long.” Sherlock strides to the door and vanishes. John and Molly exchange a look. Molly is about to speak when Sherlock’s head pops back in the door. “But thank you, John.”

Sherlock disappears through the door and it closes behind him. John frowns and raises his brows.

“Well, all right then.”

“Oh, never mind him, John,” her giggling draws John’s attention from the door. He can’t help but smile at the excitement bursting from her very being. “I’ve so many things to tell you I don’t even know where to begin!”

***

An angry Sherlock Holmes walks swiftly down the long hallway to his brother’s office. He despises visits to Mycroft’s office. The sheer number of security checks and questions are enough to bore any man, let alone the world’s only consulting detective and especially when he has a case.

With a scathing diatribe already prepared, Sherlock storms into Mycroft’s office and lets the door slam closed behind. He opens his mouth to bite out the first words only to see the chair behind Mycroft’s spotless desk is empty. Sherlock presses his lips together in a thin line and inhales deeply. Leave it to his self-important brother to  **make** Sherlock come to him and then waste Sherlock’s time not even being there.

The detective snarls and turns back to the door.

“Pompous bastard.”

Sherlock takes one step and whirls around to look at the desk again. His eyes quickly dance over everything on its surface before falling to the floor and becoming transfixed on a stream of blood rippling silently from behind it.

The detective darts forward and drops to his knees at Mycroft’s side, quickly dialing Anthea’s number and barking the code word for just such an occasion. Knowing the wheels are in motion, Sherlock glances at their surroundings and snaps up a white cloth napkin from the water decanter and glasses on the shelf behind the desk chair. He presses it hard to Mycroft’s chest. The man’s eyes pop open in surprise and pain. Mycroft stares at the ceiling, unseeing for a horrifically long moment before regaining his senses and gasping.

“Don’t try to talk. Just breathe.”

His eyes slide slowly to Sherlock’s. He inhales painfully and tries to move his head to look at Sherlock more fully.

“Don’t. Mycroft, just stay still.”

“Sherlock,” he chokes out quietly.

“I know. Just stay still.”

“J…John….” Mycroft’s eyes roll back and then close.

***

At a private government facility, a gurney carrying Mycroft Holmes bursts through a set of double doors. It is surrounded by medical personnel and followed closely by Sherlock Holmes. Each of the doctors, nurses, and other medics is shouting bits of information at one another, all in aid of his condition and treatment. Just as they pass through another set of double doors en route to an operating suite, the doctor in charge stops and puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. His name is Dr. Martin Pargetter and he has been a friend of the Holmes brothers for some time. He fixes Sherlock with sincere and concerned eyes.

“We’ll do everything we can, Sherlock. Will you stay?”

“No, I…” his voice fades away when he meets the doctor’s eyes. The man nods, understanding instantly.

“I’ll ring you.”

Sherlock nods mutely and watches Pargetter push through the doors. Sherlock simply stands right where he is while time passes. The events of the day slowly replay through his mind until he gets to Mycroft’s office, the blood, and the last word his brother spoke.

Sherlock blinks, suddenly in the present. He quickly turns on his heel and hurries back the way he came, dialing a number and pressing his mobile to one ear.

“Lestrade, meet me at Molly Hooper’s lab now. John is in danger.”

***

As luck would have it, Sherlock and Greg arrive at roughly the same time. Sherlock ran up the stairs to the floor of Molly’s lab, rushing by the lift just as its doors opened and Greg stepped out. They both hurry to the lab, saying nothing except that Sherlock had tried phoning both John and Molly all the way in the cab and neither one answered.

They pause outside the lab door, Greg draws his gun and enters first. Sherlock follows closely on his heels. They see nothing at first. The lab looks just the way it did when Sherlock left, but with no sign of John or Molly. Greg steps quietly around the counters with Sherlock directly behind. And then they see her. Molly is huddled on the floor behind one of the counters. Her hands are bound behind her back and her mouth gagged. She struggles and makes a few noises, but stops when Greg motions for her to keep quiet. She shakes her head. 

Greg checks the rest of the room and the adjoining one, but Sherlock already knows he will find nothing. Molly’s eyes tell him all he needs to know. Greg pops back out of the next room, putting away his gun and shaking his head at Sherlock. They both go to Molly and help her sit up. She speaks in a loud, but shaking voice as soon as Sherlock removes the gag from her mouth.

“He’s gone. John’s gone. He took him.”

“Sherlock.”

(The DI’s voice catches behind him and the detective can’t stop himself from closing his eyes, hoping he is keeping the fear from his expression so Molly doesn’t see. He is positive Greg did not just find John’s lifeless body laying on the floor behind another counter, but it’s impossible to keep the vision from his mind. 

He opens his eyes and first sees Molly’s wide eyes staring over his shoulder. He rises and turns quickly to see the DI holding an apple scarred with lettering. His jaw drops, face going slack, and eyes fix on the apple. His stomach twists as he goes to Greg and takes the apple. 

_ I GOT U _ . 

Sherlock stares while time, once again, stands still. Moriarty has taken John. James Moriarty has taken John. Sherlock clamps his eyes shut and creases his brow as if in pain. Without thinking, he clutches a hand to his belly, unable to stop thinking of the things Moriarty said about John, the things he wants to do to John.

Sherlock suddenly feels dizzy and clammy and cold - like he might be sick. The faint sound of Molly’s voice is the only thing that pulls him back from oblivion.

“I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

“No, no one’s to blame,” Greg reassures as he unties her and helps her to her feet.

“It is. I did it. I helped him.”

Sherlock straightens his spine stiffly, rising to his full height as he turns to face her. His expression is hard and his eyes icy as his glare drills into her. Molly flinches and tries not to shrink back into a corner the way she used to in the detective’s presence. She cannot shy away from this betrayal.

“I helped Moriarty. I used evidence he provided to prove the body that was found was his. I manipulated results so you and your brother would believe he was dead.”

“Good god. Why?” Greg is stunned. “Why?”

“He said he would hurt them,” her eyes are filling with tears. “Torture them. All of them. Sherlock and John and…” Her breath catches in her throat. “He said he’d kill them…”

“AND I SUPPOSE YOU PREFER THIS?!”

Both Molly and Greg jump at his sudden outburst. He crosses to Molly in two long strides, getting right into her personal space. Fury burns in his eyes and he throws the apple to the floor.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Any idea what he’ll do to John?!”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think he would do anything like this! I thought he’d just leave and go back to where he came from.”

“Leave?! Moriarty would never give up. He would never leave with the game unfinished!”

Molly looks at him with a horrified expression. The tears drying on her face. She rounds on Sherlock, running a hand through her hair and shouting angrily.

“Sherlock, it’s not a game!”

“It is to him! And John is the prize.”

“All right, all right,” Greg intercedes, trying to settle them down and focus on finding John as quickly as possible. “I’m getting a team in here for evidence.” 

“You won’t find any,” Sherlock bites out the words in fury. “Nothing he doesn’t want you to find. Nothing beyond that.”

He gestures at the apple and takes a few steps away from them. Greg phones NSY and demands the immediate presence of various teams. When he finally ends the call, he and Molly catch snippets of the words Sherlock has begun mumbling to himself. Greg takes a step closer.

“Wait, wait. What about your brother?”

The detective opens his eyes and turns to face the pair.

“I said Moriarty used him as a diversion.” They both look at him blankly. “He had him shot.” Molly gasps loudly, her hand flying to her mouth. “Twice in the chest. Just to get me away from John.”

“Jesus,” Greg staggers. “Is he okay? Where is he?”

“I have no idea. He’s in surgery in a private government facility.”

“Fuck. Sorry, Sherlock.”

“I don’t need your pity, Lestrade. I need your help. We must find John before it’s too late.”

“You’ve got it.”

“And mine,” Molly pledges, stepping toward the two men.

Slowly, Sherlock turns his head to meet her eyes. His fury seems to radiate from every part of his body. When he speaks, his voice is low and full of forced control.

“No. I do not, and will not, require your help. Greg, if you would come with me into the hall.”

Sherlock stalks from the room. Greg follows quickly, but looks at Molly just before he leaves. His soft brown eyes are full of empathy and he raises a hand toward her as if to say ‘just wait here for a mo’. He walks out the door and it closes behind him, leaving Molly alone. She bites her bottom lip and wraps her arms around her own body in a tight hug. She turns her back to the door as her eyes fill again. Tears fall down her cheeks as she closes her eyes and remembers John’s face when Moriarty strolled into the lab. The look on his face when he understood her role in the cover-up had gutted her and seeing it now in her mind has her stomach clenching all over again. She betrayed him and Sherlock so terribly. 

She opens her eyes with a fierce glint and vows to do whatever she can to help Sherlock find John, whether he wants it or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, the end of Part 2!  
> NO! WHAT?! NO!!
> 
> I kind of want to do what they did at the beginning of Deadpool 2 - run the credits and start asking questions instead of using the real credits.   
> Wait, did you just kill Mycroft?  
> WTF.  
> What's gonna happen to John?  
> Seriously, WTF!  
> Why do you hurt me this way?
> 
> Don't worry, my friends. I won't leave you hanging for long. I'm already editing Part 3. It looks like I may have done the same thing with the chapters as this one, so I'm not even sure how long it is. I may have actually edited all of chapter 1 already and just don't know it yet. Ha! In any case, I'm plugging away and will try to post soon. Also, be warned. Some of the tags are going to change and I'll be adding warnings as part of the chapter summaries.
> 
> That said, happy reading and I hope to see you all back again soon!  
> Jane


End file.
